THE  GIRLS 

AND  I 


MRS.  MOLESWORTH 


Chicago 

M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  COMPANY 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


PART  I. 

He  w^s  spoilt — deplorably,  absurdly  spoilt.  But* 
so  far,  that  was  perhaps  the  worst  that  could  fairly  be 
said  against  him.  There  was  genuine  manliness  still, 

some  chivalry  even,  yet  struggling  spasmodically  to 

% 

make  itself  felt,  and — what  was  practically,  perhaps, 
of  more  account  as  a  preservative — some  small  amount 
of  originality  in  his  character.  He  had  still  a  good 
deal  to  learn,  and  something  too  to  unlearn  before  he 
could  take  rank  as  past-master  in  the  stupid  worldli¬ 
ness  of  his  class  and  time.  For  he  was  neither  so 
blase  nor  so  cynical  as  he  flattered  himself,  but  young 
enough  to  affect  being  both  to  the  extent  of  believing 
his  own  affectations  real. 

He  was  popular  ;  his  position  and  income  were  fair 

enough  to  have  secured  this  to  a  considerable  extent 

in  these,  socially  speaking,  easy-going  days,  even  had 

he  been  without  the  further  advantages  of  good  looks 
* 

and  a  certain  arrogance,  not  to  say  insolence  of  bearing, 

which,  though  nothing  can  be  acquired  with  gyeate* 

3 


4 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


facility  and  at  less  expenditure  of  brain  tissue,  ap¬ 
pears  to  be  the  one  not-to-be-disputed  hall-mark  of 
the  period 

Why  he  went  to  Mrs.  Englewood's  reception  that 
evening  he  could  scarcely  •  have  told,  or  perhaps  he 
would  have  vaguely  shrunk  from  owning  even  to 
himself  the  r6al  motives — of  sincere  though  feeble 
loyalty  to  old  associations,  of  faintly  stirring  gratitude 
for  much  kindness  in  the  past — which  had  prompted 
the  effort.  For  Mrs.  Englewood  was  neither  very 
rich,  nor  very  beautiful,  nor — worst  of  ‘  nors ' — very 
fashionable  ;  scarcely,  indeed,  to  be  reckoned  as  of 
notre  monde  in  any  very  exclusive  sense  of  the  words, 
though  kindly,  and  fairly  refined,  irreproachable  as 
wife  knd  mother,  and  so  satisfied  with  her  lot  as  to  be 
uninterestingly  free  from  social  ambition. 

But  her  house  was  commonplace,  she  herself  not 

*  v 

specially  amusing. 

V 

“If  she’d  be  content  to  ask  me  there  when  they're 
alone — I  like  talking  to  her  herself  well  enough," 
thought  Despard,  as  he  dressed.  In  his  heart,  how¬ 
ever,  he  knew  that  would  not  do.  He  was  more  or 
less  of  a  lion  from  Mrs.  Englewood's  point  of  view ; 
she  was  not  above  a  certain,  pride  in  knowing  that  for 
“old  sake's  sake/'  she  could  count  upon  him  for  her 
one  party  of  the  season.  And  for  this,  as  she  retained 
a  real  affection  for  the  man  she  had  known  as  that 
delightful  thing — a  Wight,  intelligent,  and  unspoilt 


5 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 

n. 

boy,  and  as  she  thought  of  him  still  far  more  highly 
than  he  deserved  to  be  thought  of,  her  conscience  left 
her  unrebuked. 

Year  after  year,  it  is  true,  her  husband  wet- 
blanketed  her  innocent  pleasure  in  seeing  the  youftg 
man's  name  on  her  invitation  list. 

“That  fellow  !  In  your  place,  my  dear  Gertrude  !  " 
and  an  expressive  raising  of  the  eyebrows  said  the  rest. 

“But,  Harry,"  she  would  mildly  expostulate,  “you 
forget.  I  knew  him  when  he  was - •" 

“So  high — at  Whipmore.  Oh,  yes;  I  know  all 
about  it.  Well,  well,  take  your  way  of  it ;  it  doesn't 
hurt  me  if  you  invite  people  who  don't  want  to 
come." 

* 

“But  who  always  do  come,  you  must  allow,"  she 

« 

would  reply  triumphantly. 

“And  think  themselves  mighty  condescending  for 
doing  so,"  Mr.  Englewood  put  in. 

“You  don't  do  Despard  justice.  It's  always  the 
way  with  men,  I  suppose." 

“Come  now,  don’t  be  down  upon  me  about  it,"  he 
would  say  good-naturedly.  “  I  don't  stop  your  asking 
him.  It  isn’t  as  if  we  had  daughters.’  In  that 
case . but  the  rest  was  left  to  the  imagination. 

And  this  particular  year  Mrs.  Englewood  had 
Smiled  to  herself  at  this  point  of  the  discussion. 

“One  can  make  plans  even  though  one  hasn't 
daughters,"  she  reflected.  “If  Harry  would  let  me 


6 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


ask  him  to  dinner  now — but  I  know  there's  no  chance 
of  that.  And,  after  all,  a  good  deal  may  be  done  at 
an  evening  party.  I  should  like  to  do  Despard  a 
good  turn,  and  give  him  a  start  before  any  other. 
If  I  could  give  him  a  hint !  But  then  there's  my 
promise  to  her  father, — and  Despard  is  sure  to  be 
sensitive  on  those  points.  I  might  spoil  it  all.  No  ; 
I  shall  appeal  to  his  kind-heartedness  ;  that  is  the  best 
How  tender  he  used  to  be  to  poor  Lily  when  she  was 
a  tiny  child  !  How  he  used  to  mount  her  up  on  his 
shoulders  when  she  couldn't  see  the  fireworks  !  I 
will  tell  Maisie  that  story !  It  is  the  sort  of  thing 
she  will  appreciate." 

It  was  a  hot,  close  evening.  Though  only  May, 
there  was  thunder  in  the  air,  people  said.  Despard's 
inward  dissatisfaction  increased. 

“Upon  my  soul  it's  too  bad,"  he  ejaculated  while 
examining  the  flowers  in  his  buttonhole.  “Why, 
when  one's  made  up  one's  mind  to  do  a  disagreeable 
thing,  should  everything  conspire  to  make  it  more 
odious  than  it  need  be,  I  wonder !  I  have  really — 
more  than  half  a  mind — not  to - " 

Poor  Gertrude  Englewood,  at  that  moment  smil¬ 
ingly  receiving  her  guests !  She  little  knew  how  her 
great  interest  in  the  evening  was  trembling  in  the 
balance ! 

It  was  late  when  he  arrived.  Not  that  he  had 
specially  intended  this.  He  cared  too  little  about  it 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


7 


to  have  considered  whether  he  should  be  late  or  early, 
and,  as  he  slowly  made  his  way  through  the  crowd  at 
the  doorway,  he  was  conscious  of  but  one  wish — to 
get  himself  at  once  seen  by  his  hostess,  and  then  to 

make  his  escape  as  soon  as  possible.  As  to  the  first 

0 

part  of  this  little  programme  there  was  no  difficulty. 
Scarcely  did  the  first  syllables  of  his  name,  “Mr. 
Despard  Norreys,”  fall  on  the  ear,  before  Mrs.  Engle¬ 
wood’s  outstretched  hand  was  in  his,  her  pleasant 
face  smiling  up  at  him,  her  pleasant  voice  bidding 
him  welcome.  Yes,  there  was  something  difficult  to 
resist  about  her  ;  it  was  refreshing,  somehow,  and — 
there  lay  the  secret — it  brought  back  other  days, 
when  poor  Jack's  big  sister,  Gertrude,  had  welcomed 
the  orphan  schoolboy  just  as  heartily,  and  when  he 
had  glowed  with  pride  and  gratification  at  her  notice 
of  him. 

Despard’s  resigned,  not  to  say  sulky,  expression 
cleared ;  it  was  no  wonder  Mrs.  Englewood's  old 
liking  for  him  had  suffered  no  diminution  ;  he  did 
show  at  his  best  with  her. 

“So  pleased  you've  come,  so  good  of  you,"  she  was 
saying  simply. 

Her  words  made  the  young  man  feel  vaguely  ashamed 
of  himself. 

“Good  of  me!"  he  repeated,  flushing  a  little, 
though  the  same  or  a  much  more  fervent  greeting 
from  infinitely  more  exalted  personages  than  Gertrude 


8 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


had  often  failed  to  disturb  his  composure. 
indeed,  very  much  the  reverse.  Fm  sorry/'  with  a 
glance  round,  “  to  be  so  late,  especially  as - ” 

“No,  no,  you're  not  to  begin  saying  you  can't  stay 
long,  the  very  moment  you've  come.  Listen,  Despard,” 
and  she  drew  him  aside  a  little  ;  “I  want  you  to  do 
something  to  please  me  to-night.  I  have  a  little 
friend  here — a  Miss  Fforde — that  I  want  you  to  be 
very  good  to.  Poor  little  thing,  she's  quite  a  stranger, 
knows  nobody,  never  been  out.  But  she's  a  nice  little 
thing.  Will  you  ask  her  to  dance?  or — "  for  the 
shadow  of  a  frown  on  her  favorite's  forehead  became 
evident  even  to  Mrs.  Englewood's  partial  eyes — “if 
you  don't  care  to  dance,  will  you  talk  to  her  a  little? 
Anything,  you  know,  just  to  please  her." 

Despard  bowed.  What  else  could  he  do  ?  Ger¬ 
trude  slid  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

“  There  she  is,  she  said.  “That  girl  in  black  over 
there  by  the  fireplace.  “  Maisie,  my  dear,"  for  a  step 
or  two  had  brought  them  to  the  indicated  spot,  “I 
want  to  introduce  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Despard  Norreys, 
to  you.  Mr.  Norreys — Miss  Fforde;"  and  as  she 
pronounced  the  names  she  drew  her  hand  quietly 
away,  and  turned  back  towards  her  post  at  the  door. 

Despard  bowed  and,  with  the  very  slightest  possible 
instinct  of  curiosity,  glanced  at  the  girl  before  him. 
She  was  of  middle  height,  rather  indeed  under  than 
above  it ;  she  was  neither  very  fair  nor  very  dark ; 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


9 

there  was  nothing  very  special  or  striking  in  hef 
appearance.  She  was  dresfeed  in  black ;  there  was 

p 

nothing  remarkable  about  her  attire,  rather,  as  Despard 
saw  in  an  instant,  an  absence  of  style,  of  finish,  which 
found  its  epithet  at  once  in  his  thoughts — “  countrified, 
of  course,”  he  said  to  himself.  But  before  he  had  time 
to  decide  on  his  next  movement  she  raised  her  eyes, 
and  for  half  an  instant  his  attention  deepened.  The 
eyes  were  strikingly  fine ;  they  were  very  blue,  but 
redeemed  from  the  shallowness  of  very  blue  eyes  by 
the  depth  of  the  eyelashes,  both  upper  and  lower. 
And  just  now  there  was  a  brightness,  an  expectancy 
in  the  eyes  which  was  by  no  means  their  constant  ex¬ 
pression.  For,  lashes  notwithstanding,  Miss  Fforde’s 
blue  eyes  could  look  cold  enough  when  she  chose. 

“Good  eyes,”  thought  Despard.  But  just  as  he 
allowed  the  words  to  shape  themselves  in  his  brain, 
he  noticed  that  over  the  girl's  clear,  pale  face  a  glow 
of  color  was  quickly  spreading. 

“ Good  gracious  !  ''  he  ejaculated  mentally,  “she  is 
blushing !  What  a  bread-and-butter  miss  she  must 
be — to  blush  because  a  man's  introduced  to  her.  And 
I  am  to  draw  her  out !  It  is  really  too  bad  of  Mrs. 
Ejiglewood  ;  ”  and  he  half  began  to  turn  away  with  a 
sensation  of  indignation  and  almost  of  disgust. 

But  positive  rudeness  where  a  woman  was  con¬ 
cerned  did  not  come  easy  to  him.  He  stopped,  and 
muttered  something:  indistinctly  enough  about  “the 


10 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


pleasure  of  a  dance."  The  girl  had  grown  pale  again 
by  this  time,  and  in  her  eyes  a  half  startled,  almost 
pained  expression  was  replacing  the  glad  expectancy. 
As  he  spoke,  however,  something  of  the  former  look 
returned  to  them. 

“I — I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  she  said.  I  am  not 
engaged  for  anything." 

“  I  should  think  not,"  he  said  to  himself.  “  I  am 
quite  sure  you  dance  atrociously. " 

But  aloud  he  said  with  the  slow,  impassive  tone  in 
which  some  of  his  admirers  considered  him  so  to  excel 
that  “  Despard’s  drawl  "  had  its  school  of  followers — . 

“ Shall  we  say  the — the  tenth  waltz?  I  fear  it  is  the 
first  I  can  propose. " 

“Thank  you, "  Miss  Fforde  replied.  She  looked  as 
if  she  would  have  been  ready  to  say  more  had  he  in  the 
least  encouraged  it,  but  he,  feeling  that  he  had  done 
his  duty,  turned  away — the  more  eagerly  as  at  that 
moment  he  caught  sight  in  the  crowd  of  a  lady  he 
knew. 

“  Mrs.  Marrinder  !  What  a  godsend  !  "  he  ex¬ 
claimed. 

He  did  not  see  Miss  Fforde's  face  as  he  left  her,  and, 
had  he  done  so,  it  would  have  taken  far  more  than  his 
very  average  modicum  of  discernment  to  have  rightly 
interpreted  the  varying  and  curiously  intermingling 
expressions  which  rapidly  crossed  it,  like  cloud  shadows 
alternating  with  dashes  of  sunshine  on  an  April  morn- 


11 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 

% 

jng.  She  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  where  she  was* 
then  glancing  round  and  seeing  a  vacant  seat  in  a  cor¬ 
ner  she  quietly  appropriated  it. 

“The  tenth  waltz,”  she  repeated  to  herself  with  the 
ghost  of  a  smile.  “I  wonder - ”  but  that  was  all. 

The  evening  wore  on.  Miss  Fforde  had  danced  once 
- — but  only  once.  It  was  with  a  man  whom  her  host 
himself  introduced  to  her,  and,  though  good-natured 
and  unaffected,  he  was  boyish  and  commonplace  ;  and 
she  had  to  put  some  force  on  herself  to  reply  with  any 
show  of  interest  to  his  attempts  at  conversation.  She 
was  engaged  for  one  or  two  other  dances,  but  it  was 
hot,  and  the  rooms  were  crowded,  and  with  a  scarcely 
acknowledged  reflection — for  Miss  Fforde  was  young 
and  inexperienced  enough  to  think  it  hardly  fair  to 
make  an  engagement  even  for  but  a  dance,  to  break  it 
deliberately — that  if  her  partners  did  not  find  her  it 
would  not  much  matter,  the  girl  withdrew  quietly  into 
a  corner,  where  a  friendly  curtain  all  but  screened  her 
from  observation,  and  allowed  her  to  enjoy  in  peace 
the  dangerous  but  delightful  refreshment  of  an  open 
window  hard  by. 

The  draught  betrayed  its  source,  however.  She 
was  scarcely  seated  when  voices  approaching  caught 
her  ears. 

“  Here  you  are — there  must  be  a  window  open,  it  is 
ever  so  much  cooler  in  this  corner.  Are  you  afraid  of 
the  draught  ?  ”  said  a  voice  she  thought  she  recognized. 


12  THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 

“No — o— at  least — oh,  this  corner  will  do  beauti¬ 
fully.  The  curtain  will  protect  me.  What  a  blessing 
to  get  a  little  air  !  "  replied  a  second  speaker — a  lady 
evidently. 

“People  have  no  business  to  cram  their  rooms  so. 
And  these  rooms  are — well,  not  spacious.  How  in  the 
world  did  you  get  Marrinder  to  come  ?  " 

The  second  speaker  laughed.  “It  was  quite  the 
other  w ay,”  she  replied.  “How  did  he  get  me  to 
come  ?  you  might  ask.  He  has  something  or  other  to 
do  with  our  host,  and  made  a  personal  matter  of  my 
coming,  so,  of  course,  I  gave  in.  " 

“  How  angelic  !  ” 

“  It  is  a  penance  ;  but  we're  going  immediately/' 

“I  shall  disappear  with  you." 

“You  !  Why  you  told  me  a  moment  ago  that  you 
were  obliged  to  dance  with  some  protegee  of  Mrs. 
Englewood's — that  she  had  made  a  point  of  it.  And 
you  haven't  danced  with  her  yet,  to  my  certain  knowl¬ 
edge,"  said  the  woman's  voice  again. 

A  sort  of  groan  was  the  reply. 

“Why,  what’s  the  matter?  "  with  a  light  laugh. 

“  I  had  forgotten  ;  you  might  have  let  me  forget  and 
go  off  with  a  clear  conscience." 

“  What  is  there  so  dreadful  about  it  ?  " 

“It  is  that  girl  in  black  I  have  to  dance  with  for 
my  sins.  Such  a  little  dowdy.  I  am  convinced  she 
can't  waltz.  It  was  truly  putting  old  friendship  to  the 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


13 


test  to  expect  it  of  me.  And  of  all  things  I  do  detest  a 
bread-and-butter  miss.  Y ou  can  see  at  a  glance  that  this 
one  has  never  left  a  country  village  before.  She - ” 

But  his  further  confidences  were  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  Mr.  Marrinder  in  search  of  his  wife. 

“You  don’t  care  to  stay  any  longer,  I  suppose?” 
said  the  new-comer. 

“  Oh,  no;  I  am  quite  ready.  I  was  engaged  for  this 
dance — the  tenth,  isn’t  it?  But  I  am  tired,  and  it 
doesn’t  matter.  My  partner,  whoever  he  was,  can  find 
some  one  else.  Good  night,  Mr.  Norreys.” 

“Let  me  go  with  you  to  the  door  at  least,”  he  replied. 
“  I’ll  look  about  for  that  girl  in  black  on  my  way,  so 
that  if  I  don’t  see  her  I  can  honestly  feel  I  have  done 
my  duty.” 

Then  there  came  a  flutter  and  rustling,  and  Miss 
Fforde  knew  that  her  neighbors  had  taken  their  de¬ 
parture. 

She  waited  an  instant,  and  then  came  out  of  her 
corner. 

“He  is  not  likely  to  come  back  to  look  for  me  in 
this  room,”  she  thought;  “but  in  case  he  possibly 
should,  I — I  shall  not  hide  myself.” 

She  had  had  a  moment’s  sharp  conflict  with  herself 
before  arriving  at  this  decision  ;  and  her  usually  pale 
face  was  still  faintly  flushed  when,  slowly  making  his 
way  in  the  direction  of  the  sofa  where  she  had  now 
conspicuously  placed  herself,  she  descried  Mr.  Norreys. 


14 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


“Our  dance — the  tenth — I  believe/'  he  said,  with  an 
exaggeration  of  indifference,  sounding  almost  as  if  he 
wished  to  irritate  her  into  making  some  excuse  to 
escape. 

In  her  place  nine  girls  out  of  ten  would  have  done 
so,  and  without  troubling  themselves  to  hide  their  in¬ 
dignation.  But  Maisie  Fforde  was  not  one  of  those 
nine.  She  rose  quietly  from  her  seat  and  took  his 
arm. 

“  Yes,”  she  said,  “it  is  our  dance.” 

Something  in  her  voice,  or  tone,  made  him  glance 
at  her  with  a  shade  more  attention  than  he  had  hitherto 
condescended  to  bestow  on  “Mrs.  Englewood's  pro* 
ttgee”  She  was  looking  straight  before  her  ;  her  feat¬ 
ures,  which  he  now  discovered  to  be  delicate  in  out¬ 
line,  and  almost  faultlessly  regular  in  their  proportions, 
wore  an  expression  of  perfect  composure  ;  only  the 
slight,  very  slight,  roseflush  on  her  cheeks  would  have 

told  to  one  who  knew  her  well  of  some  inward  excite- 

■% 

ment.  v 

“By  Jove!”  thought  Despard,  “she's  almost 
pretty — no,  pretty's  not  the  word.  I  never  saw  a  face 
quite  like  it  before.  I  suppose  I  didn't  look  at  her, 
she’s  so  badly,  at  least  so  desperately  plainly  dressed. 
I  don't,  however,  suppose  she  can  talk,  and  I'd  bet 
any  money  she  can't  dance.” 

As  regarded  the  first  of  his  predictions,  she  gave 
him  at  present  no  opportunity  of  judging.  She 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


15 


neither  spoke  nor  looked  at  him.  He  hazarded  some 
commonplace  remark  about  the  heat  of  the  rooms  ; 
she  replied  by  a  monosyllable.  Despard  began  to  get 
angry. 

“  Won't  talk,  whether  she  can  or  not,”  he  said  to 
himself,  when  a  second  observation  had  met  with  no 
better  luck.  He  glanced  round  the  room  ;  all  the 
other  couples  were  either  dancing,  or  smiling  and  talk¬ 
ing.  He  became  conscious  of  a  curious  sensation  as 
disagreeable  as  novel — he  felt  as  if  he  were  looking 
ridiculous. 

He  turned  again  to  his  partner  in  a  sort  of  desper¬ 
ation. 

“  Will  you  dance  ?  ”  he  said,  and  his  tone  was  al¬ 
most  rough  ;  it  had  entirely  lost  its  usual  calm,  half- 
insolent  indifference. 

“  Certainly,”  she  said,  while  a  scarcely  perceptible 
smile  faintly  curved  her  lips.  “  It  is,  I  suppose,  what 
we  are  standing  up  here  for,  is  it  not  ?  ” 

Despard  grew  furious.  “She  is  laughing  at  me,” 
he  thought.  “Impertinent  little  nobody.  Where  in 
Heaven's  name  has  Gertrude  Englewood  unearthed 
her  from?  Upon  my  soul,  it  is  the  very  last  time  she 
will  see  me  at  her  dances  !  ” 

i 

And  somehow  his  discomfiture  was  not  decreased 
by  a  glance,  an  almost  involuntary  glance,  at  Miss 
Fforde  as  they  began  to  dance.  She  was  certainly 
not  striking  in  appearance ;  she  was  middle-sized, 


16 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


barely  that  indeed  ;  her  dress  was  now,  he  began  to 
perceive,  plain  with  the  plainness  of  intention,  not  of 
ignorance  or  economy.  But  yet,  with  it  all — no,  he 
could  not  honestly  feel  that  he  was  right ;  she  did  not 
look  like  “a  nobody.'’ 

There  was  a  further  discovery  in  store  for  him. 
The  girl  danced  beautifully.  Mr.  Norreys  imagined 
himself  to  have  outlived  all  enthusiasm  on  such 
subjects,  but  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  the  role  which 
was  becoming  second  nature  to  him,  a  bit  of  the  old 
Despard — the  hearty,  unspoilt  boy — cropped  out,  so  to 
speak,  unawares.  This  happened  just  now — his  sur¬ 
prise  had  to  do  with  it. 

“You  dance  perfectly — exquisitely  !  ”  he  burst  out 
when  at  last  they  stopped.  It  was  his  second  dance 
that  evening  only ;  neither  he  nor  Miss  Fforde  was 
the  least  tired,  and  the  room  was  no  longer  so 
crowded. 

She  looked  up.  There  was  no  flush  of  gratification 
on  her  face,  only  a  very  slight — the  slightest  possible- 
sparkle  in  the  beautiful  eyes. 

“Yes,”  she  said  quietly;  “I  believe  I  can  dance 
well.  ”  ' 

Despard  bit  his  lips.  For  once  in  his  life  he  felt 
absolutely  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  Yet  remain  silent 
he  would  not,  for  by  so  doing  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
he  would  be  playing  into  the  girl's  hands. 

“I  will  make  her  talk,”  he  vowed  internally. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


17 


It  was  not  often  he  cared  to  exert  himself,  but  be 
could  talk,  both  intelligently  and  agreeably,  when  he 
chose  to  take  the  trouble.  And  gradually,  though 
very  gradually  only,  Miss  Fforde  began  to  thaw. 
She,  too,  could  talk ;  though  her  words  were  never 
many,  they  struck  him  as  remarkably  well  chosen  and 
to  the  point.  Yet  more,  they  incited  him  to  further 
effort.  There  was  the  restraint  of  power  about  them  ; 
not  her  words  only,  but  her  tone  and  expression,  the 
quick  play  of  her  features,  the  half-veiled  glances  of 
her  eyes,  were  full  of  a  curious  fascination,  seeming 

to  tell  how  charming,  how  responsive  a  companion 

/ 

she  might  be  if  she  chose. 

But  the  fascination  reacted  as  an  irritant  on  Mr. 
Norreys.  He  could  not  get  rid  of  a  mortifying  sensa¬ 
tion  that  he  was  being  sounded,  and  his  measure 
taken  by  this  presumptuous  little  girl.  Yet  he  glanced 
at  her.  No;  “presumptuous”  was  not  the  word  to 
apply  to  her.  He  grew  almost  angry  at  last,  to  the 
extent  of  nearly  losing  his  self-control. 

“You  are  drawing  me  out,  Miss  Fforde,"  he  said, 
“  in  hopes  of  my  displaying  my  ignorance.  You  know 
much  more  about  the  book  in  question,  and  the 
subject,  than  I  do.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  tell 
me  all  about  it,  I - ” 

She  glanced  up  quickly  with,  for  the  lirbt  time,  a  per¬ 
fectly  natural  and  unconstrained  expression  on  her  face. 

4  Indeed — indeed,  no,"  she  said.  “I  am  very 

t 


18 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


ignorant  In  some  ways  I  have  had  little  opportunity 
of  learning.” 

Despard's  face  cleared  There  was  no  question  of 
her  sincerity. 

“I  thought  you  were  playing  me  off,”  he  said 
boyishly. 

Miss  Fforde  burst  out  laughing,  but  she  instantly 
checked  herself. 

“What  a  pity,”  thought  Mr.  Norreys.  “I  never 
heard  a  prettier  laugh.”  “  I  did,  indeed,”  he  repeated, 
exaggerating  his  tone  in  hopes  of  making  her  laugh 
again. 

But  it  was  no  use.  Her  face  had  regained  the 
calm,  formal  composure  it  had  worn  at  the  beginning 
of  the  dance. 

V 

“She  is  like  three  girls  rolled  into  one,”  thought 
Despard.  “The  shy,  country-bred  miss  she  seemed 
at  first,”  and  a  feeling  of  shame  shot  through  him  at 
the  recollection  of  his  stupid  judgment,  “  then  this 
cold,  impassive,  princess-like  damsel,  and  by  fitful 
glimpses  yet  another,  with  nothing  in  common  with 
either.  And,  notwithstanding  the  role  she  has  chosen 
to  play,  I — I  strongly  suspect  it  is  but  a  role”  he 
decided  hastily. 

The  riddle  interested  him. 

“May  I — will  you  not  give  me  another  dance ?' 
he  said  deferentially.  For  the  tenth  waltz  had  come 
to  an  end. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


19 


“I  am  sorry  I  cannot, ”  she  replied.  The  words 
were  simple  and  girlish,  but  the  tone  was  regal. 
“  Good-night,  Mr.  Norreys.  I  congratulate  you  on 
your  self-sacrifice  at  the  altar  of  friendship.  You  may 
now  take  your  departure  with  a  clear  conscience." 

He  stared.  She  was  repeating  some  of  his  own 
words.  Miss  Fforde  bowed  coldly,  and  turned  away. 
And  Despard,  bewildered,  mortified  even,  though  he 
would  not  own  it,  yet  strangely  attracted,  and  dis¬ 
gusted  with  himself  for  being  so,  after  a  passing  word 
or  two  with  his  hostess,  left  the  house. 

An  hour  or  two  later  Gertrude  Englewood  was  bid¬ 
ding  her  young  guest  good-night. 

“And  oh,  Maisie  !  ”  she  exclaimed,  “how  did  you 
get  on  with  Despard  ?  Is  he  not  delightful  ?  ” 

Miss  Fforde  smiled  quietly.  They  were  standing  in 

i 

her  room,  for  she  was  to  spend  a  night  or  two  with  her 
friend. 

“  I — to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  would  much  rather  not 
speak  about  him,"  she  said.  “  He  is  very  good  look¬ 
ing,  and — well,  not  stupid,  I  dare  say.  But  I  am  not 
used  to  men,  you  know,  Gertrude — not  to  men  of  the 
day,  at  least,  of  which  I  suppose  he  is  a  type.  I  can¬ 
not  say  that  I  care  to  see  more  of  them.  I  am  hap¬ 
pier  at  home  with  papa." 

She  turned  away  quickly.  Gertrude  did  not  see  the 
tears  that  rose  to  the  girl's  eyes,  or  the  rush  of  color 
that  overspread  her  face  at  certain  recollections  of  that 


20 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


evening.  She  was  nineteen,  but  it  was  her  first  “real” 
dance,  and  she  felt  as  if  years  had  passed  since  the 
afternoon  only  two  days  ago  when  she  had  arrived. 

Mrs.  Englewood  looked  and  felt  sadly  disappointed. 
She  had  been  so  pleased  with  her  own  diplomacy. 

“  It  will  be  different  when  you  are  a  little  more  in 
the  way  of  it,”  she  said.  “And — I  really  don’t  think 
your  father  should  insist  on  your  dressing  quite  so 
plainly.  It  will  do  the  very  thing  he  wants  to  avoid — 
it  will  make  you  remarkable/’ 

“No,  no,”  said  Maisie,  shaking  her  head.  “Papa 
is  quite  right.  You  must  allow  it  had  not  that  effect 
this  evening.  No  one  asked  to  be  introduced  to  me.” 

“There  was  such  a  crowd - ”  Gertrude  began,  but 

this  time  Maisie’s  smile  was  quite  a  hearty  one  as  she 
interrupted  her. 

“Never  mind  about  that,”  she  said.  “But  do  tell 
me  one  thing.  I  saw  Mr.  Norreys  speaking  to  you  for 
a  moment  as  he  went  out.  You  didn’t  say  anything 
about  me  to  him,  I  hope  ?  ” 

“ No,”  said  Mrs.  Englewood,  “I  did  not.  I  would 
have  liked  to  do  so,”  she  added  honestly,  “  but  some¬ 
how  he  looked  queer — not  exactly  bored,  but  not  en¬ 
couraging.  So  I  just  let  him  go.” 

“  That’s  right,”  said  Maisie  ;  “  thank  you.  I  am  so 
glad  you  didn’t.  I  do  hope  I  shall  never  see  him  again,” 
she  added  to  herself. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


21 


PART  II. 

A  hope  not  destined  to  be  fulfilled. 

For  though  Maisievyrote  home  to  “papa”  the  morn* 
Ing  after  Mrs.  Englewood's  dance,  earnestly  begging 
for  leave  to  return  to  the  country  at  once  instead  of 
going  on  to  her  next  visit,  and  assuring  him  that  she 
felt  she  would  never  be  happy  in  fashionable  society, 
never  be  happy  anywhere ,  indeed,  away  from  him  and 
everything  she  cared  for,  papa  was  inexorable.  It  was 
natural  she  should  be  homesick  at  first,  he  replied ; 
natural,  and  indeed  unavoidable,  that  she  should  feel 
strange  and  lonely  ;  and,  as  she  well  knew,  she  could 
not  possibly  long  more  to  be  with  him  again,  than  he 
longed  to  have  her ;  but  there  were  all  the  reasons  she 
knew  full  well  why  she  should  stay  in  town  as  had 
been  arranged  ;  the  very  reasons  which  had  made  him 
send  her  now  made  him  say  she  must  remain.  Her 
own  good  sense  would  show  her  the  soundness  of  his 
motives,  and  she  must  behave  like  his  own  brave 
Maisie.  And  the  girl  never  knew  what  this  letter  had 
cost  her  invalid  father,  nor  how  he  shrank  from,  oppos¬ 
ing  her  wishes. 

4‘  She  set  off  so  cheerfully,”  he  said  to  himself,  “  and 


22 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


she  has  only  been  there  three  days.  And  she  seemed 
rather  to  have  enjoyed  her  first  dinner  party  and  the 
concert,  or  whatever  it  was,  that  Gertrude  Englewood 
took  her  to.  What  can  have  happened  at  the  evening 
party?  She  dances  well,  I  know  ;  and  she  is  not  the 
sort  of  girl  to  expect  or  care  much  about  ball-room 
admiration/' 

Poor  man  !  it  was,  so  far  a  disappointment  to  him. 
He  would  have  liked  to  get  a  merry,  happy  letter  that 
morning  as  he  sat  at  his  solitary  breakfast.  For  he 
had  no  fear,  no  shadow  of  a  fear,  that  his  Maisie’s 
head  ever  could  be  turned. 

“I  have  guarded  against  any  dangers  of  that  kind 
for  her,  at  least,”  he  said  to  himself,  “  provided  I  have 
not  gone  too  far  and  made  her  too  sober-minded.  But 
no  ;  after  all,  it  is  erring  on  the  safe  side — considering 
everything.  ” 

Three  or  four  evenings  after  Mrs.  Englewood’s  dance 
Despard  found  himself  at  a  musical  party.  He  was  in 
his  own  milieu  this  time,  and  proportionately  affable — 
with  the  cool,  condescending  affability  which  was  the 
nearest  approach  to  making  himself  agreeable  that  he 
recognized.  He  had  been  smiled  at  by  the  beauty  of 
the  evening,  much  enjoying  her  discomfiture  when  he 
did  7iot  remain  many  minutes  by  her  side  ;  he  had  been 
all  but  abjectly  entreated  by  the  most  important  of  the 
dowagers,  a  very  great  lady  indeed,  in  every  sense  of 
the  word,  to  promise  his  assistance  at  her  intended 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


23 


theatricals  ;  he  had,  in  short,  received  the  appreciation 
•Which  was  due  him,  and  was  now  resting  on  his  oars, 
-comfortably  installed  in  an  easy-chair,  debating  within 
himself  whether  it  was  worth  while  to  give  Mrs.  Bel¬ 
mont  a  fright  by  engrossing  her  pretty  daughter,  and 
thus  causing  to  retire  from  her  side  in  the  sulks  Sir 
Henry  Gayburn,  to  whom  the  girl  was  talking.  For* 
Sir  Henry  was  rich,  and  was  known  to  be  looking  out 
for  a  wife,  and  Despard  had  long  since  been  erased 
from  the  maternal  list  of  desirable  possibilities. 

‘‘Shall  I  ?  ”  he  was  saying  to  himself  as  he  lay  back 
with  a  smile,  when  a  voice  beside  him  made  him  look 
up.  It  was  that  of  the  son  of  the  house,  a  friend  of  his 
-own  ;  the  young  man  seemed  annoyed  and  perplexed. 

“  Norreys  !  oh,  do  me  a  good  turn,  will  you  ?  I  have 
•to  look  after  the  lady  who  has  just  been  singing,  and 
my  mother  is  fussing  about  a  girl  who  has  been  sitting 
all  the  evening  alone.  She's  a  stranger.  Will  you  be 
so  awfully  good  as  to  take  her  down  for  an  ice  or  some¬ 
thing  ? " 

Despard  looked  round.  He  could  scarcely  refuse  a 

i 

request  so  couched,  but  he  was  far  from  pleased. 

“Where  is  she?  Who  is  she?  he  asked,  beginning 
languidly  to  show  signs  of  moving. 

“There — over  by  the  window — that  girl  in  black,” 
his  friend  replied.  “Who  she  is  I  can't  say.  My 

mother  told  me  her  name  was  Ford.  Come  along,  and 

« 

Til  introduce  you,  that's  a  good  fellow.” 


24 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


Despard  by  this  time  had  risen  to  his  feet 

“Upon  my  soul !  ”  he  ejaculated. 

But  Mr.  Leslie  was  in  too  a  great  a  hurry  to  notice 
the  unusual  emphasis  with  which  he  spoke. 

And  in  half  a  second  he  found  himself  standing  in 
front  of  the  girl,  who,  the  last  time  they  met,  had 
aroused  in  him  such  unwonted  emotions. 

“Miss  Ford,”  murmured  young  Leslie,  “may  I  in¬ 
troduce  Mr.  Norreys  ?  ”  and  then  Mr.  Leslie  turned  on 
his  heel  and  disappeared. 

Despard  stood  there  perfectly  grave.  He  would 
hazard  no  repulse  ;  he  waited  for  her. 

She  looked  up,  but  there  was  no  smile  on  her  face — 

m 

only  the  calm  self-composedness  which  it  seemed  to 
him  he  knew  so  well.  How  was  it  so  ?  Had  he  met 
her  before  in  some  former  existence?  Why  did  all 
about  her  seem  at  once  strange  and  yet  familiar?  He 
had  never  experienced  the  like  before. 

These  thoughts — scarcely  thoughts  indeed — flickered 
through  his  brain  as  he  looked  at  her.  They  served  one 
purpose  at  least,  they  prevented  his  feeling  or  looking 
awkward,  could  such  a  state  of  things  have  been  con¬ 
ceived  possible. 

Seeing  that  he  was  not  going  to  speak,  remember¬ 
ing,  perhaps,  that  if  he  remembered  the  last  words  she 
had  honored  him  with,  he  could  scarcely  be  expected 
to  do  so,  she  at  last  opened  her  lips. 

“That,”  she  said  quietly,  slightly  inclining  her  head 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK.  25 

in  the  direction  where  young  Leslie  had  stood,  “  was* 
under  the  circumstances,  unnecessary/' 

“  He  did  not  know,”  said  Despard. 

“  I  suppose  not ;  though  I  don’t  know.  Perhaps  you 
told  him  you  had  forgotten  my  name/’ 

“No,”  he  replied,  “I  did  not.  It  would  not  have 
been  true.” 

She  smiled  very  slightly. 

“There  is  no  dancing  to-night,”  she  said.  “  May  I 
ask - ?  ”  and  she  hesitated. 

“Why  I  ventured  to  disturb  you?  ”  he  interrupted. 
“  I  was  requested  to  take  you  downstairs  for  an  ice  or 
whatever  you  may  prefer  to  that.  The  farce  did  not 
originate  with  me,  I  assure  you.” 

“Do  you  mean  by  that  that  you  will  not  take  me 
downstairs  ?  ”  she  said,  smiling  again  as  she  got  up 
bom  her  seat.  “  I  should  like  an  ice  very  much.” 

Despard  bowed  without  speaking,  and  offered  her 
his  arm. 

But  when  he  had  piloted  her  through  the  crowd,  and 
she  was  standing  quietly  with  her  ice,  he  broke  the 
silence. 

“Miss  Ford,”  he  began,  “as  the  fates  have  again 
forced  me  on  your  notice,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  a 
question.  ” 

She  raised  her  eyes  inquiringly.  No — he  had  not 
exaggerated  their  beauty. 

“I  should  like  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  strange 


26 


TEAT  CIRL  IN  BLACK . 


words  you  honored  me  with  as  I  was  leaving  Mrs. 
Englewoods  the  other  evening.  I  do  not  think  you 
have  forgotten  them.  ” 

“No,”  she  replied,  “  I  have  not  forgotten  them,  and 
I  meant  them,  and  I  still  mean  them.  But  I  will  not 
talk  about  them  or  explain  anything  I  said.” 

There  was  nothing  the  least  flippant  in  her  tone 
—only  quiet  determination.  But  Despard,  watching 
keenly,  saw  that  her  lips  quivered  a  little  as  she 
spoke. 

“As  you  choose,”  he  said.  “Of  course,  in  the  face 
of  such  a  very  uncompromising  refusal,  I  can  say  noth¬ 
ing  more.” 

“Then  shall  we  go  upstairs  again?”  proposed  Miss 
Fforde. 

Mr.  Norreys  acquiesced.  But  he  had  laid  his  plans, 
and  he  was  a  more  diplomatic  adversary  than  Miss 
Fforde  was  prepared  to  cope  with. 

“I  finished  reading  the  book  we  were  speaking  of 
the  other  evening,”  he  began  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice; 

“I  mean - ”  and  he  named  the  book.  “At  least,  I 

fancy  it  was  you  I  was  discussing  it  with.  The  last 
volume  falls  off  greatly.” 

“Oh,  do  you  think  so?”  said  the  girl  in  a  tone  of 
half-indignant  disappointment,  falling  blindly  into  the 
trap.  “  I,  on  the  contrary,  felt  that  the  last  volume 
made  amends  for  all  that  was  unsatisfactory  in  the 
Others.  You  see  by  it  what  he  was  driving  at  all  the 


THAT  GIRL  IX  BLACK. 


2? 


time,  and  that  the  persiflage  and  apparent  cynicism 
were  only  means  to  an  end.  I  do  hate  cynicism — 
it  is  so  easy,  and  such  a  little  makes  such  a  great 
effect" 

Something  in  her  tone  made  Despard  feel  irritated. 
“  Is  she  hitting  at  me  again?”  he  thought.  And  the 
idea  threw  him,  in  his  turn,  off  his  guard. 

The  natural  result  was  that  both  forgot  themselves 
in  the  interest  of  the  discussion.  And  Despard,  when 
he,  as  it  were,  awoke  to  the  realization  of  this,  took 
care  not  to  throw  away  the  advantage  he  had  gained. 
He  drew  her  out,  ha*  talked  as  he  but  seldom  exerted 
himself  to  do,  and  when,  at  the  end  of  half-an-hour  or 
so,  an  elderly  lady,  whom  he  knew  by  name  only,  was 
seen  approaching  them,  and  Miss  Fforde  sprang  to  her 
feet,  exclaiming, 

“  Have  you  been  looking  for  me  ?  I  hope  not  ” — he 
smiled  quietly  as  he  prepared  to  withdraw — he  had 
succeeded ! 

“  Good-night,  Mr.  Norreys,”  said  Maisie  simply. 

“Two  evenings  ago  she  would  not  say  good-night 
at  all,”  he  thought.  But  he  made  no  attempt  to  do 
more  than  bow  quietly. 

“You  are  very — cold,  grim — no,  I  don't  know  what 
to  call  it,  Maisie,  dear,”  said  the  lady,  her  cousin  and 
present  chaperone,  as  they  drove  away,  “in  your 
manner  to  men  ;  and  that  man  in  particular — Despard 
Norreyk  It  is  not  often  he  is  so  civil  to  any  girl.  ” 


28 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


“I  detest  all  men — all  young  men,”  replied  Maisie 
irritably. 

“But,  my  dear,  you  should  be  commonly  civil. 
And  he  had  been  giving  himself,  for  him,  unusual 
trouble  to  entertain  you.”  “Can  he  know  about  her? 
Oh,  no,  it  is  impossible,”  she  added  to  herself. 

Miss  Fforde  closed  her  lips  firmly.  But  in  a  moment 
or  two  she  opened  them  again. 

“  Cousin  Agnes,”  she  said,  half  smiling,  “  I  am  afraid 
you  are  quite  mistaken.  If  I  had  not  been  what  you 
call  ‘commonly  civil/  would  he  have  gone  on  talking 
to  me  ?  On  the  contrary,  I  am  sadly  afraid  I  was  far 
too  civil.” 

“My  dear  child,”  ejaculated  her  cousin,  “what  do 
you  mean  ?  ”  * 

“  Oh,”  said  Maisie,  4 1  don’t  know.  Never  mind  the 
silly  things  I  shy.  I  like  being  with  you,  Cousin  Agnes, 
but  I  don't  like  London.  I  am  much  happier  at  home 
in  the  country.” 

“But,  my  dear  child,  when  I  saw  you  at  home  a 
few  months  ago  you  were  looking  forward  with  pleas¬ 
ure  to  coming.  What  has  changed  you  ?  What  has 
disappointed  you  ?  ” 

“I  am  not  suited  for  anything  but  a  quiet  country 
life — that  is  all,”  said  Miss  Fforde. 

“But,  then,  Maisie,  afterwards,  you  know,  you  will 
have  to  come  to  town  and  have  a  house  of  your  own 

f 

and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It  is  necessary  for  you  to 
see  something  of  the  world  to  prepare  you  for—” 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


29 

“Afterwards  isn’t  now ,  Cousin  Agnes.  And  I  am 
doing  my  best,  as  papa  wished,”  said  the  girl  weariedly. 
“  Do  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  Really  sometimes 
I  do  wish  I  were  any  one  but  myself.  ” 

r  ‘  Maisie,  ”  said  her  cousin  reproachfully,  “  you  know, 
dear,  that  isn’t  right.  You  must  take  the  cares  and 
responsibilities  of  a  position  like  yours  along  with  the 
advantages  and  privileges  of  it.” 

“I  know,”  Miss  Fforde  replied  meekly  enough; 
“but,  Cousin  Agnes,  do  tell  me  who  was  that  very 
funny-looking  man  with  the  long  fluffy  beard  whom 
you  were  talking  to  for  some  time.  99 

“Oh,  that,  my  dear,  was  Count  Dalmiati,  the  cele¬ 
brated  ”  so-and-so,  and  once  launched  in  her  descrip¬ 
tions  Cousin  Agnes  left  Maisie  in  peace. 

Two  days  later  came  the  afternoon  of  Lady  Valence's 
garden  party.  It  was  one  of  the  garden  parties  to 
which  “everybody”  went — Despard  Norreys  for  one, 
as  a  matter  of  course.  He  had  got  more  gratification 
and  less  annoyance  out  of  his  second  meeting  with 
Miss  Fforde  ;  for  he  flattered  himself  he  knew  how  to 
manage  her  now — “  that  little  girl  in  black,  who  thinks 
herself  so  wonderfully  wise,  forsooth  !  ”  Yet  the  sting 
was  there  still ;  the  very  persistence  with  which  he  re¬ 
peated  to  himself  that  he  had  mastered  her  showed  it 
His  thoughts  recurred  to  her  more  than  they  were  in 
the  habit  of  doing  to  any  one  or  anything  but  his  own 
immediate  concerns.  Out  of  curiosity,  merely,  no 


30 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


doubt ;  curiosity  increased  by  the  apparent  improbabil¬ 
ity  of  satisfying  it.  For  no  one  seemed  to  know  any¬ 
thing  about  her.  She  might  have  dropped  from  the 
skies.  He  had  indeed  some  difficulty  in  recalling  her 
personality  to  the  two  or  three  people  to  whom  he  ap¬ 
plied  for  information. 

“A  girl  in  black — at  the  Leslies'  musical  party? 
Why,  my  dear  fellow,  there  were  probably  a  dozen 
girls  in  black  there.  There  usually  is  a  good  sprinkling 
of  black  frocks  at  evening  parties,"  said  one  of  the 
knowers  of  everybody  whom  he  had  selected  to  honor 
with  his  inquiries.  “  What  was  there  remarkable  about 
her?  There  must  have  been  something  to  attract  your 
notice." 

“No,  on  the  contrary, ”  Despard  replied,  “  she  was 
remarkably  zmremarkable  ; "  and  he  laughed  lightly. 
“  It  was  only  rather  absurd.  I  have  seemed  haunted 
by  her  once  or  twice  lately,  and  yet  nobody  knows 
anything  about  her,  except  that  her  name  is  Ford." 

“Ford,"  said  his  companion:  “that  does  not  tell 
much.  And  not  pretty,  you  say  ?  " 

“Pretty,  oh,  yes.  No,  not  exactly  pretty,"  and  a 
vision  of  Maisie's  clear  cold  profile  and — yes,  there 
was  no  denying  it — most  lovely  eyes,  rose  before  him. 
“  More  than  pretty,  "he  would  have  said  had  he  not 
been  afraid  of  being  laughed  at.  “I  don’t  really  know 
how  to  describe  her,  and  it  is  of  less  than  no  conse¬ 
quence.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  see  her  again,” 
and  he  went  on  to  talk  of  other  matters. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLA.CK. 


•A 

He  did  see  her  again,  however,  and  it  was,  as  will 

have  already  been  supposed,  at  Lady  Valence’s  garden 

% 

party  that  he  did  so.  It  was  a  cold  day,  of  course. 
The  weather,  with  its  usual  consideration,  had  changed 
that  very  morning,  after  having  been,  for  May,  really 
decently  mild  and  agreeable.  The  wind  had  veered 
round  to  the  east,  and  it  seemed  not  improbable  that 
the  rain  would  look  in,  an  uninvited  guest,  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon. 

Lady  Valence  declared  herself  in  despair,  but  as 
nobody  could  remember  the  weather  ever  being  any¬ 
thing  but  highly  detestable  the  day  of  her  garden 
party,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  she  in  reality  took  it  more 
philosophically  than  she  allowed.  Despard  strode 
about  feeling  very  cold,  and  wondering  why  he  had 
come,  and  why,  having  come,  he  stayed.  There  was 
a  long  row  of  conservatories  and  ferneries,  and  glass¬ 
houses  of  every  degree  of  temperature  not  far  from  the 
lawn,  where  at  one  end  the  band  was  playing,  and  at 
the  other  some  deluded  beings  were  eating  ices. 
Despard  shivered  ;  the  whole  was  too  ghastly.  A 

i 

door  in  the  centre  house  stood  invitingly  open,  and  he 
turned  in.  Voices  near  at  hand,  female  voices,  warned 
him  off  at  one  side,  for  he  was  not  feeling  amiable,  and 
he  hastened  in  the  opposite  direction.  By  degrees  the 
pleasant  warmth,  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  plants  and 
flowers  amidst  which  he  found  himself,  the  solitariness* 
too,  soothed  and  subdued  his  irritation. 


32 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


“  If  I  could  smoke/’  he  began  to  say  to  himself^ 
when,  looking  round  with  a  half-formed  idea  of  so 
doing,  he  caught  sight  amidst  the  ferns  of  feminine 
drapery.  Some  one  was  there  before  him — but  a  very 
quiet,  mouse-like  somebody.  A  somebody  who  was 
standing  there  motionless,  gazing  at  the  tall  tropical 
plants,  enjoying,  apparently,  the  warmth  and  the  quiet 
like  himself. 

‘ 4  That  girl  in  black,  that  sphinx  of  a  girl  again — by 
Jove  !  ”  murmured  Despard  under  his  breath,  and  as  he 
did  so,  she  turned  and  saw  him. 

Her  first  glance  was  of  annoyance;  he  saw  her 
clearly  from  where  he  stood,  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  fact.  But,  so  quickly,  that  it  was  difficult  to  be¬ 
lieve  it  had  been  there,  the  expression  of  vexation 
passed.  The  sharply  contracted  brows  smoothed  ;  the 
graceful  head  bent  slightly  forward  ;  the  lips  parted. 

“How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Norreys  ?  ”  she  said.  “We 
are  always  running  against  each  other  unexpectedly, 
are  we  not  ?  ” 

Her  tone  was  perfectly  natural,  her  manner  expressed 
simple  pleasure  and  gratification.  She  was  again  the 
third,  the  rarest  of  her  three  selves — the  personality 
which  Despard,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  believed  to  be 
herself. 

He  smiled — a  slightly  amused,  almost  a  slightly 
condescending  smile,  but  a  very  pleasant  one  all  the 
same.  He  could  afford  to  be  pleasant  now.  Poor 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


33 


silly  little  girl — she  had  given  in  with  a  good  grace  a 
truce  to  her  nonsense  of  regal  airs  and  dignity  ;  a  truce, 
too,  to  the  timid  self-consciousness  of  her  first  in¬ 
troduction. 

“She  understands  better  now,  I  .see,  ”  he  thought 
“Understands  that  a  little  country  girl  is  but- — ah, 
Well — but  a  little  country  girl.  Still,  I  must  allow — 
and  he  hesitated  as  his  glance  fell  on  her  ;  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  her  by  daylight,  and  the  words 
he  had  mentally  used  did  not  quite  “  fit  ” — I  must 
allow  that  she  has  brains,  and  some  character  of  her 
own.” 

“I  can  imagine  its  seeming  so  to  you,”  he  said 
aloud.  “You  have,  I  think  you  told  me,  lived  always 
in  the  country.  Of  course,  in  the  country  one's  ac¬ 
quaintances  stand  out  distinctly,  and  one  remembers 
every  day  whom  one  has  and  has  not  seen.  In  town 
it  is  quite  different.  I  find  myself  constantly  forget¬ 
ting  people,  and  doing  all  sorts  of  stupid  things,  imagin¬ 
ing  I  have  seen  some  one  last  week  when  it  was  six 
months  ago,  and  so  on.  But  people  are  really  very 
good-natured.  ” 

She  listened  attentively. 

“How  difficult  it  must  be  to  remember  all  the 
people  you  know!”  she  said,  with  the  greatest  ap¬ 
parent  simplic;ty  ;  indeed,  with  a  tone  of  almost  awe* 
struck  reverence. 

“  I  simply  don't  attempt  it,”  he  replied. 

3 


34 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


“  How — dear  me,  I  hardly  know  how  to  say  it-~-hoW 
very  good  and  kind  of  you  it  is  to  remember  me,”  sha 
said. 

Mr.  Norreys  glanced  at  her  sharply. 

Was  she  playing  him  off?  For  an  instant  the  appall* 
ing  suggestion  all  but  took  his  breath  away,  but  it 
was  quickly  dismissed.  Its  utter  absurdity  was  too 
self-evident ;  and  the  expression  on  her  face  reassured 
him.  She  seemed  so  innocent  as  she  stood  there, 
her  eyes  hidden  for  the  moment  by  their  well-fringed 
lids,  for  she  was  looking  down.  A  faint,  the  very 
faintest,  suspicion  of  a  blush  colored  her  cheeks,  there 
was  a  tiny  little  trembling  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  But  somehow  these  small  evidences  of  con* 
fusion  did  not  irritate  him  as  they  had  done  when  he 
first  met  her.  On  the  contrary.  “Poor  little  girl,”  he 
said  to  himself.  “  I  see  I  must  be  careful.  Still,  she 
will  live  to  get  over  it,  and  one  cannot  be  positively 
brutal.  ” 

For  an  instant  or  two  he  did  not  speak. 

Then  :  “I  never  pay  compliments,  Miss  Ford,”  he 
said,  “but  what  I  am  going  to  say  may  sound  to 
you  like  one.  However,  I  trust  you  will  not  dislike 
it.” 

And  again  he  unaccountably  hesitated — what  was 
the  matter  with  him  ?  He  meant  to  be  kindly  en¬ 
couraging  to  the  girl,  but  as  she  stood  beside  him,  look¬ 
ing  up  with  a  half-curious,  half-deprecating  expression 


TEA  T  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


85 


in  her  eyes,  he  was  conscious  of  his  face  slightly  flush- 
ing  ;  the  words  he  wanted  refused  to  come,  he  felt  as 
if  he  were  bewitched. 

‘  ‘  Won't  you  tell  me  what  you  were  going  to  say  ?  ” 
she  said  at  last.  “  I  should  so  like  to  hear  it.  ” 

4 4  It's  not  worth  saying,"  he  blurted  out.  “Indeed,  / 
though  I  know  what  I  mean,  I  cannot  express  it.  You 
— you  are  quite  different  from  other  girls,  Miss  Ford. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  confuse  you  with  the  crowd. 
That's  about  the  sum  of  what  I  was  thinking,  though 
— I  meant  to  express  it  differently.  Certainly,  in  the 
way  I  have  said  it,  no  one  by  any  possibility  could  take 
it  for  a  compliment.  " 

To  his  surprise  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  bright 
smile,  a  smile  of  pleasure,  and — of  something  else. 

“On  the  contrary,  I  do  take  it  as  a  compliment,  as 
a  very  distinct  compliment,"  she  said,  “considering 
whom  it  comes  from.  Though,  after  all,  it  is  scarcely 
/  that  should  accept  it.  The — the  circumstances  of 
my  life  may  have  made  me  different — my  having  been 
so  little  in  town,  for  instance.  I  suppose  there  are 
some  advantages  in  everything,  even  in  apparent  dis¬ 
advantages.  ” 

Her  extreme  gentleness  and  deference  put  him  at  his 
ease  again. 

“  Oh,  certainly,"  he  said,  “For  my  part,  I  often 
wish  I  had  never  been  anywhere  or  seen  anything/ 
Life  would,  in  such  a  case,  seem  so  much  more  in- 


36 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


teresting.  There  would  be  still  things  left  to  dream 
about.  " 

He  sighed,  and  there  was  something  genuine  in 
his  sigh.  “I  envy  people  who  have  never  travelled 
sometimes/'  he  added. 

“Have  you  travelled  much  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“Oh,  dear,  yes — been  everywhere — the  usual 
round.  " 

“But  the  usual  round  is  just  what  with  me  counts 
for  nothing,  "  she  said  sharply.  *  ‘  Real  travelling  means 
living  in  other  countries,  leading  the  life  of  their 
peoples,  not  rushing  round  the  capitals  of  Europe  from 
one  cosmopolitan  hotel  to  another." 

He  smiled  a  superior  smile.  “When  you  have 
rushed  round  the  capitals  of  Europe  you  may  give  an 
opinion,"  his  smile  seemed  to  say. 

“That  sort  of  thing  is  impossible,  except  for 
Bohemians,"  he  said  languidly.  “I  detest  talking 
about  travels." 

“Do  you  really  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  very  distinct  ac¬ 
cent  of  contempt.  “Then  I  suppose  you  have  not 

read - "  and  she  named  a  book  on  everybody's  table 

at  the  moment. 

Despard’s  face  lighted  up. 

“Oh,  indeed,  yes,"  he  said.  “That  is  not  an  ordi¬ 
nary  book  of  travels  ;  "  and  he  went  on  to  speak  of  the 
volume  in  question  in  a  manner  which  showed  that 
he  had  read  it  intelligently,  while  Miss  Fforde,  forget- 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


37 


ting  herself  and  her  companion  in  the  interest  of  what 
he  said,  responded  sympathetically. 

Half  unconsciously,  as  they  talked  they  strolled  up 
and  down  the  wide  open  space  in  front  of  the  ferns. 
Suddenly  voices,  apparently  approaching  them,  caught 
the  girl’s  ear. 

“Oh,  dear,”  she  said,  “  my  friends  will  be  wonder¬ 
ing  what  has  become  of  me  !  I  must  go.  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Norreys,”  and  she  held  out  her  hand.  There  was 
something  simple  and  perfectly  natural  in  her  manner 
as  she  did  so,  which  struck  him.  It  was  almost  as  if 
she  were  throwing  off  impulsively  a  part  which  she 
was  tired  of  playing. 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  quarter  of  an  instant  longer 
than  was  actually  necessary. 

“I — I  hope  we  may  meet  again,  Miss  Ford,”  he 
said,  simply  but  cordially — something  in  her  present 
manner  was  infectious — “  and  continue  our  talk.” 

She  glanced  up  at  him. 

“I  hope  so,  too,”  she  said  quickly.  But  then  her 
brows  contracted  again  a  little.  “At  least — I  don’t 
know  that  it  is  very  probable,”  she  added  disconnect¬ 
edly,  as  she  hastened  away  in  the  direction  whence 
came  the  voices. 

“Hasn’t  many  invitations,  I  dare  say,”  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  looked  after  her.  “If  she  had  been  still 
with  Gertrude  Englewood  I  might,  perhaps,  have  got 

one  or  two  people  to  be  civil  to  them.  But  I  daresay 


38 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


it  would  have  been  Quixotic,  and  it's  the  sort  of  thing 
I  dislike  doing — putting  one's  self  under  obligation  for 
no  real  reason.  ” 

If  he  had  heard  what  Maisie  Fforde  was  thinking  to 
herself  as  she  made  her  way  quickly  to  her  cousin  ! 

“What  a  pity!”  she  thought.  “What  a  real  pity 
that  a  man  who  must  have  had  good  material  in  him 
should  have  so  sunk — to  what  I  can’t  help  thinking 
vulgarity  of  feeling ,  if  not  of  externals — to  such  con¬ 
temptible  self-conceit  and  affectations  !  I  can  under¬ 
stand,  however,  that  he  may  have  been  a  nice  boy 
once,  as  Gertrude  maintains.  Poor  Gertrude — how 
her  hero  has  turned  out  !  I  must  never  let  her  know 
how  impossible  I  find  it  to  resist  drawing  him  out — it 
surely  is  not  wrong  ?  Oh,  how  I  should  love  to  see  him 
thoroughly  humbled  !  The  worst  of  it  is,  that  when  he 
becomes  a  reasonable  being,  as  he  does  now  and  then 
he  can  be  so  nice — interesting  even — and  I  forget  whom 
I  am  talking  to.  But  not  for  long !  No,  indeed— 
‘Mrs.  Englewood's  dowdy  protigie*  the  ‘bread-and- 

butter  miss,'  for  whom  the  tenth  waltz  was  too  much 

•  .  * 1 

condescension,  hasn't  such  a  bad  memory.  And  when 
I  had  looked  forward  to  my  first  dance  so,  and  fancied 
the  world  was  a  good  and  kind  place  !  Oh  /''  and  she 
clinched  her  hands  as  the  hot  mortification,  the  scath¬ 
ing  desillusionnement ,  of  that  evening  recurred  to  her 
in  its  full  force.  “  Oh,  I  hope  it  is  not  wicked  and  un- 
Christian,  but  I  should  love  to  see  him  humbled  1  I 


THAT  GIRL  1  BLACK. 


39 


wonder  if  I  shall  meet  him  again.  I  hope  not — and 
yet  I  hope  I  shall/' 

The  “ again"  came  next  at  a  dinner-party,  to  which 
she  accompanied  her  cousin.  Mrs.  Maberly  was  old- 
fashioned  in  some  of  her  ideas.  Nothing  for  instance, 
would  persuade- her  that  it  was  courteous  to  be  more 
than  twenty  minutes  later  than  the  dinner-hour  named, 
in  consequence  of  which  she  not  unfrequently  found 
herself  the  first  arrival.  This  in  no  way  annoyed 
Maisie,  as  it  might  have  done  a  less  simple-minded 
maiden  ;  indeed,  on  the  contrary,  it  rather  added  to 
her  enjoyment.  She  liked  to  get  into  a  quiet  corner 
and  watch  the  various  guests  as  they  came  in  ;  she 
felt  amused  by,  and  yet  sorry  for,  the  little  perturba¬ 
tions  she  sometimes  discerned  on  the  part  of  the 
hostess,  especially  if  the  latter  happened  to  young 
and  at  all  anxious-minded.  This  was  the  case  on  the 
evening  in  question,  when  fully  half  an  hour  had  been 
spent  by  Miss  Fforde  in  her  comer  before  dinner  was 
announced. 

“It  is  too  bad/’  Maisie  overheard  the  young  chate - 
laine  whisper  to  a  friend,  “such  affectation  really 
amounts  to  rudeness.  But  yet  it  is  so  awkward  to  go 

down - ”  then  followed  some  words  too  low  for  her 

to  understand,  succeeded  by  a  joyful  exclamation — 
“Ah,  there  he  is  at  last,"  as  again  the  door  opened, 
and  “Mr.  Norreys  ”  was  announced. 

And  Maisie’s  ears  must  surely  have  been  pretemat- 


40 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


urally  sharp,  for  through  the  buzz  of  voices,  through  the 
hostess's  amiably  expressed  reproaches,  they  caught 
the  sound  of  her  own  name,  and  the  fatal  words  “that 
girl  in  black/' 

“You  must  think  me  a  sort  of  Frankenstein's  night¬ 
mare,  ”  she  could  not  help  saying  with  a  smile,  as  Des- 
pard  approached  to  take  her  down  to  dinner. 

But  she  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  rejoinder. 

“I  won't  contradict  you,  Miss  Ford,  if  you  like  to 
call  yourselves  names.  No,  I  should  have  been  both 

surprised  and  disappointed  had  you  not  been  here.  I 

* 

have  felt  sure  all  day  I  was  going  to  meet  you." 

Maisie  felt  herself  blush,  felt  too  that  his  eyes  were 
upon  her,  and  blushed  more,  in  fury  at  herself. 

“Fool  that  I  am,"  she  thought.  “He  is  going  to 
play  now  at  making  me  fall  in  love  with  him,  is  he? 
How  contemptible,  how  absurd !  Does  he  really  im¬ 
agine  he  can  take  me  in  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head  proudly  and  looked  at  him,  to 
show  him  that  she  was  not  afraid  to  do  so.  But  the 
expression  on  his  face  surprised  her  again.  It  was 
serious,  gentle,  and  almost  deprecating,  yet  with  an 
honest  light  in  the  eyes  such  as  she  had  never  seen 
there  before. 

“What  an  actor  he  would  make/'  she  thought. 
But  a  little  quiver  of  some  curious  inexplicable  sympa^ 
thy  which  shot  through  her  as  she  caught  those  eyes, 
belied  the  unspoken  words. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


41 


€t  I  am  giving  far  more  thought  to  the  man  and  his 
moods  than  he  is  worth,”  was  the  decision  she  had 
arrived  at  by  the  time  they  reached  the  dining-room 
door.  ‘‘After  all,  the  wisest  philosophy  is  to  take  the 
goods  the  gods  send  us  and  enjoy  them.  I  shall  forget 
it  all  for  the  present,  and  speak  to  him  as  to  any  other 
pleasant  man  I  happen  to  meet.” 

And  for  that  evening,  and  whenever  they  met, 
which  was  not  unfrequently  in  the  course  of  the  next 
few  weeks,  Maisie  Fforde  kept  to  this  determination. 
It  was  not  difficult,  for  when  he  chose,  Despard  Norreys 
could  be  more  than  pleasant.  And — “Miss  Ford”  in 
her  third  personality  was  not  hard  to  be  pleasant  to ; 
and — another  “and” — they  were  both  young,  both— 
in  certain  directions — deplorably  mistaken  in  their  es¬ 
timates  of  themselves  ;  and,  lastly,  human  nature  is 
\ 

human  nature  still,  through  all  the  changes  of  philos¬ 
ophies,  fashions,  and  customs. 

The  girl  was  no  longer  acting  a  part ;  had  she  been 
doing  so,  indeed,  she  could  not  so  perfectly  have  car¬ 
ried  out  the  end  she  had,  in  the  first  fire  of  her  indig¬ 
nation,  vaguely  proposed  to  herself.  For  the  time 
being  she  was,  so  to  speak,  “  letting  herself  go  ”  with 
the  pleasant  insidious  current  of  circumstances. 

Yet  the  memory  of  that  first  evening  was  still  there 
She  had  not  forgotten. 

And  Despard  ? 


42 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


PART  III. 

The  London  season  was  over.  Mr.  Norreys  had 
been  longing  for  its.  close  ;  so,  at  least,  he  had  repeated 
to  his  friends,  and  with  even  more  insistence  to  him¬ 
self,  a  great  many,  indeed  a  very  great  many,  times, 
during  the  last  hot,  dusty  weeks  of  the  poor  season’s 
existence.  He  wanted  to  get  off  to  Norway  in  a  friend  s 
yacht  for  some  fishing,  he  said  ;  he  seemed  for  once 
really  eager  about  it,  so  eager  as  to  make  more  than 
one  of  his  companions  smile,  and  ask  themselves  what 
had  come  to  Norreys,  he  who  always  took  things  with 
such  imperturbable  equanimity,  what  had  given  him  this 
mania  for  northern  fishing  ? 

And  now  the  fishing  and  the  trip  were  things  of  the 
past.  They  had  not  turned  out  as  delightful  in  reality  as 
in  anticipation  somehow,  and  yet  what  had  gone  wrong, 
Despard,  on  looking  back,  found  it  hard  to  say.  That 
nothing  had  gone  wrong  was  the  truth  of  the  matter. 
The  weather  had  been  fine  and  favorable  ;  the  party 
had  been  well  chosen  ;  Lennox-Brown,  the  yacht’s 
owner,  was  the  perfection  of  a  host. 

“  It  was  a  case  of  the  workman,  not  of  the  tools,  I 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


43 


suspect/'  Despard  said  to  himself  one  morning,  when, 
strolling  slowly  up  and  down  the  smooth  bit  of  gravel 
path  outside  the  drawing-room  windows  at  Markerslea 
Vicarage,  he  allowed  his  thoughts  to  wander  backwards 
some  little  way.  “I  am  sick  of  it  all,”  he  went  on, 
with  an  impatient  shake,  testifying  to  inward  discom¬ 
posure.  “I'm  a  fool  after  all,  no  wiser,  indeed  a  very 
great  deal  more  foolish,  than  my  neighbors.  And  I’ve 
been  hard  enough  upon  other  fellows  in  my  time. 
Little  I  knew  !  I  cannot  throw  it  off,  and  what  to  do 
I  know  not.” 

He  was  staying  with  his  sister,  his  only  near  relation. 
She  was  older  than  he,  had  been  married  for  several 
years,  and  had  but  one  trouble  in  life.  She  was  child¬ 
less.  Naturally,  therefore,  she  lavished  on  Despard  an 
altogether  undue  amount  of  sisterly  devotion.  But 
she  was  by  no  means  an  entirely  foolish  woman.  She 
had  helped  to  spoil  him,  and  she  was  beginning  to  re¬ 
gret  it. 

“  He  is  terribly,  quite  terribly  blask  ,”  she  was  saying 
to  herself  as  she  watched  him  this  morning,  herself  un¬ 
observed.  “I  have  never  seen  it  so  plainly  as  this 
autumn,”  and  she  sighed.  “  He  is  changed,  too;  he 
is  moody  and  irritable,  and  that  is  new.  He  has 
always  been  so  sweet-tempered.  Surely  he  has  not 
got  into  money  difficulties — I  can  scarcely  think  so. 
He  is  too  sensible.  Though,  after  all,  as  Charles  often 
says,  perhaps  the  best  thing  that  could  befall  the  poor 


44 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK 


boy  would  be  to  have  to  work  hard  for  his  living” — a 

t 

most  natural  remark  on  the  part  of  “Charles,”  seeing 
that  he  himself  had  always  enjoyed  a  thoroughly  com¬ 
fortable  sufficiency — and  again  Mrs.  Selby  sighed 

Her  sigh  was  echoed ;  she  started  slightly,  then, 
glancing  round,  she  saw  that  the  glass  door  by  which 
she  stood  was  ajar,  and  that  her  brother  had  arrrested 
his  steps  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  was  within  a  couple 
of  yards  of  her.  It  was  his  sigh  that  she  had  heard. 
Her  face  clouded  over  still  more;  it  is  even  probable 
that  a  tear  or  two  rose  unbidden  to  her  eyes.  She  was 
a  calm,  considering  woman  as  a  rule  ;  for  once  she 
yielded  to  impulse,  and,  stepping  out,  quickly  slipped 
her  hand  through  Mr.  Norreys’  arm. 

“  My  dear  Despard,”  she  said,  “  what  a  sigh  !  It 
sounded  as  if  from  the  very  depths  of  your  heart,  if,” 
she  went  on,  trying  to  speak  lightly,  “if  you  have  one 
that  is  to  say,  which  I  have  sometimes  doubted.  ” 

But  he  threw  back  no  joke  in  return. 

“  I  have  never  given  you  reason  to  doubt  it,  surely, 
Maddie  ?  ”  he  said  half  reproachfully. 

“  No,  no,  dear.  Fm  in  fun,  of  course.  But  seri¬ 
ously - ” 

“  I’m  serious  enough.” 

“Yes,  that  you  are — too  serious.  What’S  the 
matter,  Despard,  for  that  there  is  something  the 
matter  I  am  convinced.” 

He  did  not  attempt  to  deny  it 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


45 


“Yes,  Madeline/'  he  said  slowly,  4  ‘  I’m  altogether 
upset.  I’ve  been  false  to  all  my  own  theories.  I’ve 
been  a  selfish  enough  brute  always,  I  know,  but  at 
least  I  think  I’ve  been  consistent.  I’ve  chosen  my  own 
line,  and  lived  the  life,  and  among  the  people  that  suited 
me,  and - ” 

“  Been  dreadfully,  miserably  spoilt,  Despard.” 

He  glanced  up  at  her  sharply.  No,  she  was  not 

smiling.  His  face  clouded  over  still  more. 

* 

“  And  that’s  the  best  even  you  can  say  of  me?  ”  he 
asked. 

Mrs.  Selby  hardly  let  him  finish. 

“  No,  no.  I  am  blaming  myself  more  than  you,* 
she  said  quickly.  “  You  are  much — much  better  than 
you  know,  Despard.  You  are  not  selfish  really. 
Think  of  what  you  have  done  for  others  ;  how  con¬ 
sistently  you  have  given  up  those  evenings  to  that 
night  school. 

“  Once  a  week — what’s  that  ?  And  there’s  no  credit 
in  doing  a  thing  one  likes.  I  enjoy  those  evenings,  and 
it’s  more  than  I  can  say  for  the  average  of  my  days.” 

But  his  face  cleared  a  very  little  as  he  spoke. 

“  Well,”  she  went  on,  “that  shows  you  are  not  at 
heart  an  altogether  selfish  brute,”  and  now  she  smiled 
a  little.  “And  all  the  more  does  it  show  how  much 
better  you  might  still  be  if  you  chose.  I  am  very  glad, 
delighted,  Despard,  that  you  are  discontented  and  dis¬ 
satisfied  ;  I  knew  it  would  come  sooner  or  later.” 


46 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


Mr.  Norreys  looked  rather  embanassed. 

“  Maddie, "  he  began  again,  “you  haven't  quite  un¬ 
derstood  me.  I  didn’t  finish  my  sentence.  I  was  going 
on  to  say  that  at  least  I  had  done  no  harm  to  any  one 
else  ;  if  no  one's  any  better  through  me,  at  least  no  ones 
the  worse  for  my  selfishness — oh,  yes,  don’t  interrupt," 
he  went  on.  “I  know  what  you’d  like  to  say — ‘No 
man  liveth  to  himself/  the  high-flown  sort  of  thing.  I 
don’t  go  in  for  that.  But  now — I  have  not  even  kept 
my  consistency.  You’d  never  guess  what  I’ve  gone 
and  done — at  least,  Maddie,  can  you  guess?  ’’ 

And  his  at  all  times  sweet  voice  sweetened  and 
softened  as  he  spoke,  and  into  his  eyes  stole  a  look 
Madeline  had  never  seen  there  before. 

“  Despard,"  she  exclaimed  breathlessly,  “have you, 
can  you,  have  fallen  in  love  ?  99 

He  nodded. 

“  Oh,  dear  Despard,’’  she  exclaimed,  “  I  am  so  very 
glad.  It  will  be  the  making  of  you.  That’s  to  say,  if 
— but  it  must  be  somebody  very  nice." 

“  Nice  enough  in  herself — nice,"  he  repeated,  and  he 
smiled.  “Yes,  if  by  nice  you  mean  everything  sweet 
and  womanly,  and  original  and  delightful,  and — oh, 
you  mustn’t  tempt  me  to  talk  about  her.  But  what  she 
is  herself  is  not  the  only  thing,  my  poor  Maddie." 

Mrs.  Selby  gave  a  start. 

“Oh,  Despard,  she  exclaimed,  “you  don’t  maun 
that  she’s  a  married  woman.  ” 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


47 


“No,  no." 

44  Or,  or  any  one  very  decidedly  beneath  you?"  she 
continued,  with  some  relief,  but  anxiously  still. 

Despard  hesitated. 

44  That's  exactly  what  I  can't  quite  say/'  he  replied. 
“She's  a  lady  by  birth,  that  I'm  sure  of.  But  she  has 
seen  very  little.  Lived  always  in  a  village  apparently 
— she  has  been  in  some  ways  unusually  well  and  care¬ 
fully  educated.  But  I'm  quite  positive  she's  poor,  really 
with  nothing  of  her  own,  I  fancy.  I’m  not  sure — it  has 
struck  me  once  or  twice  that  perhaps  she  had  been  in¬ 
tended  for  a  governess." 

Mrs.  Selby  gasped,  but  checked  herself. 

4 4  She  has  friends  who  are  kind  to  her.  I  met  her  at 
some  good  houses.  It  was  at  Mrs.  Englewood's  first  of 
all,  but  since  then  I've  seen  her  at  much  better  places." 

4  4  But  why  do  you  speak  so  doubtfully — you  keep 
saying  4 1  fancy' — 4 1  suppose.'  It  must  be  easy  to 
find  out  all  about  her." 

4 4 No;  that's  just  it.  She's  curiously,  no — not  re¬ 
served — she's  too  nice  and  well-bred  for  that  sort  of 
thing — but,  if  you  can  understand,  she’s  frankly  back¬ 
ward  in  speaking  of  herself.  She'll  talk  of  anything 
but  herself.  She  has  an  old  invalid  father  whom  she 
adores — and — upon  my  soul,  that's  about  all  she  has 
ever  told  me." 

44  You  can  ask  Mrs.  Englewood,  surely.  * 

Despard  frowned. 


48 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


“  I  can,  and  I  have  ;  at  least,  I  tried  it  But  it  was 
not  easy.  She's  been  rather  queer  to  me  lately.  She 
would  volunteer  no  information,  and  of  course — you 
see — I  didn't  want  to  seem  interested  on  the  subject 
It's  only  just  lately,  since  I  came  here  in  fact,  that  I've 
really  owned  it  to  myself,"  and  his  face  flushed.  “I 
went  yachting  and  fishing  to  put  it  out  of  my  head, 
but — it's  been  no  use — I  won't  laugh  at  all  that  sort  of 
thing  again  as  I  have  done,  I  can  tell  you.  " 

“He’s  very  much  in  earnest,"  thought  Mrs.  Selby. 
“What — you  don't  mind  telling  me — what  is  hei 
name  ?  " 

“  Ford — Miss  Ford.  I  fancy  her  first  name  is  Mary, 
There's  a  pet  name  they  call  her  by,  but  he  did  not 
tell  it." 

“  Mary  Ford — that  does  not  sound  aristocratic," 
mused  Mrs.  Selby.  “Despard,  tell  me — Mrs.  Engle¬ 
wood  is  really  fond  of  you.  Do  you  think  she  knows 
anything  against  the  girl,  or  her  family,  or  anything 
like  that,  and  that  she  was  afraid  of  it  for  you?  " 

“Oh,  dear,  no  !  Quite  the  contrary,  Mai — Miss  Ford 
is  a  great  pet  of  hers.  Gertrude  was  angry  with  me 
for  not  being  civil  to  her,"  and  he  laughed. 

“  Not  being  civil  to  her,"  she  repeated.  “  And  yon 
were  falling  in  love  with  her?  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 
“That  was  afterwards.  I  was  brutally  uncivil  to 
tier  at  first  That's  how  it  began  somehow,"  he  said, 
disconnectedly. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


49 


Mrs*  Selby  felt  utterly  perplexed  Was  he  being 
taken  in  by  a  designing  girl?  It  all  sounded  very 
Inconsistent 

"  Despard,”  she  said  after  a  little  silence,  "  shall  I 
try  to  find  out  all  about  her  from  Mrs.  Englewood  ? 
She  would  not  refuse  any  information  if  it  was  for 
your  sake.  ” 

He  considered. 

"  Well,  yes,”  he  said,  "  perhaps  you’d  better.” 

44  And — ”  she  went  on,  "  if  all  is  satisfactory—* 

"Well?” 

"You  will  go  through  with  it  ?  ” 

"I — suppose  so.  Altogether  satisfactory  it  can’t 
be.  I'm  fairly  well  off  as  a  bachelor,  but  that's  a 
very  different  matter.  And — Maddie — I  should  hate 
poverty.  ” 

"  You  would  have  no  need  to  call  it  poverty,”  she 
Said  rather  coldly. 

“  Well— well — I’m  speaking  comparatively  of  course,” 
he  replied,  impatiently.  "  It  would  be  what  /  call 
poverty.  And  I  am  selfish,  I  know.  The  best  of  me 
won't  come  out  under  those  circumstances.  I've  no 
right  to  marry,  you  see — that's  what's  been  tormenting 

_  ft 

me. 

"  But  if  she  likes  to  face  it — would  not  that  bring 
out  the  best  of  you?”  said  Mrs.  Selby  hopefully, 
though  in  her  heart  rather  shocked  by  his  way  of 

Speaking. 

4 


5© 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


“Perhaps — I  can't  say.  But  of  course  if  she 
did - ” 

“And  you  are  sure  she  would?”  asked  Madeline, 
suddenly  awaking  to  the  fact  that  Miss  Ford's  feel¬ 
ings  in  the  matter  had  been  entirely  left  out  of  the 
question. 

Despard  smiled. 

“Do  you  mean  am  I  sure  she  cares  for  me  ?  ”  he 
said.  “Oh,  yes — as  for  that - ” 

“I don't  like  a  girl  who — who  lets  it  be  seen  if  she 
cares  for  a  man,”  she  said. 

Mr.  Norreys  turned  upon  her. 

“  Lets  it  be  seen,”  he  repeated  angrily.  “Maddie, 
you  put  things  very  disagreeably.  Would  I — tell  me, 
is  it  likely  that  /  would  take  to  a  girl  so  utterly  devoid 
of  delicacy  as  your  words  sound  ?  And  is  it  so  im¬ 
probable  that  a  girl  would  care  for  me?  ”  He  smiled 
in  spite  of  himself,  and  Mrs.  Selby’s  answering  smile 
as  she  murmured  :  “I  did  not  mean  that,  you  know,” 
helped  to  smooth  him  down.  ‘  ‘  She  did  her  best  to  make 
me  think  she  detested  me,”  he  added.  “  But - ” 

“Ah,  yes,  but — ”  said  his  sister  fondly.  “Then  it  is 
settled,  Despard,”  she  went  on.  “I  shall  tackle  Mrs. 
Englewood  in  my  own  way.  You  can  trust  me. 
You  don't  know  where  Miss  Ford  is  at  present?”  she 
added. 

He  shook  his  head  despondently. 

“Not  the  ghost  of  an  idea.  I  didn't  try  to  hear. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


51 


I  thought  I  didn't  want  to  know,  you  see.  But-»» 
Maddie,"  he  added,  half  timidly,  “you'll  write  a* 
once  ? " 

“As  soon  as  I  possibly  can,"  she  replied  kindly, 
for  glancing  at  him  she  saw  that  he  looked  really  ill 
and  worn.  “  And,"  she  went  on,  “  as  my  reward,  you 
will  go  with  me  to  the  Densters'  garden-party  this 
afternoon.  Charles  can't,  and  I  hate  going  alone.  I 
don't  know  them — it  is  their  first  year  here,  though 
everybody  says  they  are  very  nice  people. " 

“Oh,  dear,"  said  Despard.  “Very  well,  Maddie. 
I  must,  I  suppose. " 

‘ 4  Then  be  ready  at  a  quarter  to  four.  I'll  drive 
you  in  the  pony-carriage,"  and  Madeline  disappeared 
through  the  glass  door  whence  she  had  emerged. 

“I  wonder  if  she  will  write  to-day,"  thought  Mr. 
Norreys,  though  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to  ask 
it  “I  should  like  to  know  it's  done — a  sort  of  cross¬ 
ing  the  Rubicon.  And  it's  a  good  while  now  since 
that  last  day  I  saw  her.  She  was  never  quite  so 
sweet  as  that  day.  Supposing  I  heard  she  was 
married  ?  " 

His  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  at  the  thought, 
and  he  grew  white,  though  there  was  no  one  to  see. 
But  he  reassured  himself.  Few  things  were  less 
likely.  Portionless  girls,  however  charming,  don't 
marry  so  quickly  nowadays. 

Madeline's  feelings  were  mingled.  She  was  honestly 


52 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


and  unselfishly  glad  of  what  she  believed  might  be  a 
real  turning-point  towards  good  for  Despard.  Yet — 
“if  only  he  had  not  chosen  a  girl  quite  so  denuded  of 
worldly  advantages  as  she  evidently  is,”  she  reflected. 
“For  of  course  if  she  had  either  money  or  connection 
Mrs.  Englewood  would  not  have  kept  it  a  secret.  She 
is  far  too  outspoken.  I  must  beg  her  to  tell  everything 
she  knows,  not  to  be  afraid  of  my  mixing  her  name  up 
in  the  matter  in  any  way.  When  she  sees  that  Charles 
and  I  do  not  disapprove  she  will  feel  less  respon¬ 
sibility.” 

And  it  was  with  a  comfortable  sense  of  her  own  and 
“Charles’s”  unworldliness  that  Mrs.  Selby  prepared  to 
indite  the  important  letter. 

She  saw  little  of  her  brother  till  the  afternoon.  He 
did  not  appear  at  luncheon,  having  left  word  that  he 
had  gone  for  a  long  walk. 

\ 

“Provided  only  that  he  is  not  too  late  for  the 
Densters’,”  thought  Madeline,  with  a  little  sigh  over  the 
perversity  of  ratmkind. 

But  her  fears  were  unfounded.  At  ten  minutes  to 
four  Mr.  Norreys  made  his  appearance  in  the  hall, 
faultlessly  attired,  apologizing  with  his  usual  courtesy, 
in  which  to  his  sister  he  never  failed,  for  his  five 
minutes’  delay,  and  Mrs.  Selby,  feeling  pleased  with 
herself  outwardly  and  inwardly,  for  she  was  conscious 
both  of  looking  well  in  a  very  pretty  new  bonnet,  and 
of  acting  a  truly  high-minded  part  as  a  sister,  seated 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


53 


herself  in  her  place,  with  a  glance  of  satisfaction  at 
her  companion. 

“  Everybody  will  be  envying  me,”  she  said  to  her¬ 
self,  with  a  tiny  sigh  as  she  remembered  former  air- 
castles  in  Despard’s  behoof.  “The  Flores-Carter  girls 
and  Edith  and  Bertha  Ryder,  indeed  all  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  get  quite  excited  if  they  know  he's  here. 
He  might  have  had  his  choice,  of  the  best  matches  in 
this  county,  to  my  own  knowledge,  and  there  are 
several  girls  with  money.  Ah,  well  !  ” 

The  grounds  seemed  already  full  of  guests  when 
the  brother  and  sister  drove  up  to  the  Densters’  door. 
Mrs.  Selby  was  at  once  seized  upon  by  some  of  her 
special  cronies,  and  for  half  an  hour  or  so  Despard 
kept  dutifully  beside  her,  allowing  himself  to  be  intro¬ 
duced  to  any  extent,  doing  his  best  to  please  his  sister 
by  responding  graciously  to  the  various  attentions 
which  were  showered  upon  him.  But  he  grew  very 
tired  of  it  all  in  a  little  while — a  curious  dreamy  feeling 
began  to  come  over  him,  born  no  doubt  of  the  un¬ 
wonted  excitement  of  his  conversation  with  Madeline 
that  morning.  He  had  gone  a  long  walk  in  hopes  of 
recovering  his  usual  equanimity,  but  had  only  sue* 
ceeded  in  tiring  himself  physically.  The  mere  fact  ot 
having  put  in  words  to  another  the  conflict  of  the  last 
few  months  seemed  to  have  given  actual  existence  to 
that  which  he  had  by  fits  and  starts  been  trying  to 
persuade  himself  was  but  a  passing  fancy.  And  even 


54 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


to  himself  he  could  not  have  told  whether  he  was  glad 
or  sorry  that  the  matter  had  come  to  a  point — had,  as 
it  were,  been  taken  out  of  his  own  hands.  For  that 
Madeline  had  already  written  to  Mrs.  Englewood  he 
felt  little  doubt. 

“  Women  are  always  in  such  a  desperate  hurry,”  he 
said  to  himself,  which,  all  things  considered,  was 
surely  most  unreasonable.  Nor  could  he  have  denied 
that  it  was  so,  for  even  as  he  made  the  reflection  he 
began  to  calculate  in  how  many,  or  how  few  rather, 
days  they  might  look  for  an  answer,  and  to  speculate 
on  the  chances  of  Mrs.  Englewood’s  being  acquainted 
with  Maisie’s  present  whereabouts. 

“Maisie,”  he  called  her  to  himself,  though  he  had 
somehow  shrunk  from  telling  the  name  to  his  sister. 
It  was  so  sweet — so  like  her,  he  repeated  softly,  though, 
truth  to  tell,  sweetness  was  not  the  most  conspicuous 
quality  in  our  heroine.  But  Despard  was  honestly  in 
love  after  all,  as  many  better  and  many  worse  men 
have  been  before  him,  and  will  be  again.  And  love  of 
the  best  kind,  which  on  the  whole  his  was,  is  clairvoy¬ 
ant — he  was  not  wrong  about  Maisie’s  real  sweet¬ 
ness. 

“  I  do  care  for  her,  as  deeply,  as  thoroughly  as  ever 
a  man  cared  for  a  woman.  But  I  don’t  want  to  marry  ; 
it’s  against  all  my  plans  and  ideas.  I  didn’t  want  to 
fall  in  love  either,  for  that  matter.  The  whole  affair 
upsets  everything  I  had  ever  dreamt  of/’ 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


55 


He  felt  dreaming  now — he  had  managed  to  leave 
his  sister  and  her  friends,  absorbed  in  the  excitement 
of  watching  a  game  of  lawn  tennis  between  the  best 
players  of  the  county,  and  had  stolen  by  himself 
down  some  shady  walks  away  from  the  sparkle  and 
chatter  of  the  garden  party.  The  quiet  and  dimness 
soothed  him,  but  increased  the  strange  unreal  feeling, 
of  which  he  had  been  conscious  since  the  morning. 
He  felt  as  if  nothing  that  could  happen  would  surprise 
him — he  was  actually,  in  point  of  fact,  not  surprised, 
when  at  a  turn  in  the  path  he  saw  suddenly  before 
him,  advancing  towards  him,  her  cloudy  black  drapery 
— for  she  was  in  black  as  ever — scarcely  distinguish¬ 
able  from  the  dark  shrubs  at  each  side,  the  very  person 
around  whom  all  his  thoughts  were  centering — Maisie 
— Maisie  Ford  herself! 

He  did  not  start,  he  made  no  exclamation.  A 
strange  intent  look  came  into  his  eyes,  as  he  walked 
on  towards  her.  Long  afterwards  he  remembered, 
and  it  helped  to  explain  things,  that  she  too  had  testi¬ 
fied  no  surprise.  But  her  face  flushed  a  little,  and  the 
first  expression  he  caught  sight  of  was  one  of  pleasure 
— afterwards,  long  afterwards,  he  remembered  this 
coo. 

They  met — their  hands  touched.  But  for  a  moment 

t 

he  did  not  speak. 

‘‘How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Norreys  ?  ”  she  said  then. 
“  It  is  hot  and  glaring  on  the  lawn,  is  it  not?  I  have 


56 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


I 

just  been  seeing  my  father  off.  He  was  too  tired  to 
stay  longer,  and  I  was  glad  to  wander  about  here  in 
the  shade  a  little.  ” 

“Your  father?  ”  he  repeated  half  mechanically. 

“  Yes — we  are  staying,  he  and  I,  for  a  few  days  at 
Laxter's  Hill.  I  am  so  sorry  he  has  gone— I  would  so 
have  liked  you  to  see  him.” 

She  spoke  eagerly,  and  with  the  peculiar,  bright 
girlishness  really  natural  to  her,  which  was  one  of  her 
greatest  charms. 

Despard  looked  at  her ;  her  voice  and  manner  helped 
him  a  little  to  throw  off  the  curious  sensation  of  un¬ 
reality.  But  he  was,  though  he  scarcely  knew  it,  be¬ 
coming  inwardly  more  and  more  wrought  up. 

“I  should  have  liked  to  see  him  exceedingly,”  he 
began,  “  any  one  so  dear  to  you.  I  may  hope  some 
other  time,  perhaps,  to  do  so  ?  I — I  was  thinking  of 
you  when  I  first  caught  sight  of  you  just  now,  Miss 
Ford — indeed,  I  have  done  nothing — upon  my  word, 
you  may  believe  me — I  have  done  little  else  than  think 
of  you  since  we  last  met.” 

The  girl's  face  grew  strangely  still  and  intent,  yet 
with  a  wistful  look  in  the  eyes  telling  of  feelings  not 
to  be  easily  read.  It  was  as  if  she  were  listening,  in 
spite  of  herself,  for  something  she  still  vaguely  hoped 
she  was  mistaken  in  expecting. 

“Indeed,”  she  began  to  say,  but  he  interrupted 


her. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


57 


“No,”  he  said,  “do  not  speak  till  you  have  heard 
me.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  it  before  I  met  you 
just  now.  I  was  just  wondering  how  and  when  it 
could  be.  .  But  now  that  this  opportunity  has  come  so 
quickly  I  will  not  lose  it.  I  love  you — I  have  loved 
you  for  longer  than  I  knew  myself,  than  I  would  own 
to  myself - ” 

“From  the  very  first,  from  that  evening  at  Mrs. 
Englewood's  ?  ”  she  said,  and  but  for  his  intense  pre¬ 
occupation,  he  would  have  been  startled  by  her  tone. 

“Yes,”  he  said  simply,  yet  with  a  strain  of  retro¬ 
spection  in  his  eyes,  as  if  determined  to  control  him¬ 
self  and  speak  nothing  but  the  unexaggerated  truth— 
“yes,  I  almost  think  it  began  that  first  evening,  rude, 
brutally  rude  as  I  was  to  you.  I  would  not  own  it— 
I  struggled  against  it*  for  I  did  not  want  to  marry.  I 
had  no  thought  of  it.  I  am  selfish,  very  selfish,  I  fear, 
and  I  preferred  to  keep  clear  of  all  ties  and  responsi¬ 
bilities,  which  too  often  become  terribly  galling  on 
small  means.  I  am  no  hero — but  now — you  will  for¬ 
give  my  hesitation  and — and  reluctance,  will  you  not  ? 
You  are  generous  I  know,  and  my  frankness  will  not 
injure  me  with  you,  will  it  ?  You  will  believe  that  I 
loved  you  almost  from  the  first,  though  I  could  not  all 
at  once  make  up  my  mind  to  marrying  on  small 
means?  And  now — now  that  I  understand — that — 
that  all  seems  different  to  me — that  nothing  seems  of 
eonsequence  except  to  hear  you  say  you  love  me,  as — 


58 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


as  I  have  thought  sometimes — Maisie — you  will  not  b* 
hard  on  me  ? - ” 

He  stopped  ;  he  could  have  gone  on  much  longer,  and 
there  was  nothing  now  outwardly  to  interrupt  him. 
She  had  stood  there  motionless,  listening.  Her  face 
he  could  scarcely  see,  it  was  half  turned  away,  but 
that  seemed  not  unnatural.  What  then  caused  his 
sudden  misgiving  ? 

“ Maisie,”  he  repeated  more  timidly. 

Then  she  turned — there  was  a  burning  spot  of  red 
on  each  cheek,  her  eyes  were  flaming.  Yet  her  voice 
was  low  and  quiet. 

“  Hard  on  you  !  ”  she  repeated.  “  I  am  too  sorry 
for  myself  to  think  or  care  much  about  you.  I  am — 
yes,  I  may  own  it,  I  am  so  horribly  disappointed.  I 
had  really  allowed  myself  to  tiling  of  you  as  sincere, 

as,  in  spite  of  your  unmanly  affectations,  your  con- 

* 

temptible  conceit,  an  honest  man,  a  possible  friend. 
I  was  beginning  to  forgive  your  ill-bred  insolence  to 
me  as  a  stranger  at  the  first,  thinking  there  was  some¬ 
thing  worthy  of  respect  about  you  after  all.  But — oh, 
dear  !  And  to  try  to  humbug  me  by  this  sham  honesty 
— to  dare  to  say  you  did  not  think  you  could  have 
cared  for  me  enough  to  risk  curtailing  your  #wn  self- 
indulgence,  but  that  now — it  is  too  pitiful.  But,  oh, 
dear — it  is  too  horribly  disappointing  !  ” 

And  as  she  looked  at  him  again,  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  actually  full  of  tears. 


THA I  GIRL  IN  BLACK.  59 

His  brain  was  in  a  whirl  of  bewilderment  bitterest 
mortification  and  indignation.  For  the  m<  ment  the 
last  had  the  best  of  it. 

“You  have  a  right  to  refuse  me,  to  despise  my 
weakness  if  you  choose — whether  it  is  generous  to 
take  advantage  of  my  misplaced  confidence  in  you  in 
having  told  you  all — yes,  all ,  is  another  matter.  But 
one  thing  you  shall  not  accuse  me  of,  and  that  is,  of 
lying  to  you.  I  have  not  said  one  untruthful  word. 
I  did — yes,  I  did  love  you,  Mary  Ford — what  I  feel  to 
you  now  is  something  more  like - ” 

He  hesitated. 

“  Hate,  I  suppose,  ”  she  suggested  mockingly.  “  All 
the  better.  It  cannot  be  a  pleasant  feeling  to  hate 
any  one,  and  I  do  not  wish  you  anything  pleasant. 
If  I  could  believe/’ she  went  on  slowly,  “if  I  could 
believe  you  had  loved  me,  I  think  I  should  be  glad, 
for  it  would  be  what  you  deserve.  I  would  have  liked 
to  make  you  love  me  from  that  very  first  evening  if  I 

could — just  to - but  unluckily  I  am  not  the  sort  of 

woman  to  succeed  in  anything  of  that  kind.  How- 
ever - 

She  stopped  ;  steps  approaching  them  were  heard 
through  the  stillness.  Maisie  turned.  “  I  have  noth¬ 
ing  more  to  say,  and  I  do  not  suppose  you  wish  to 
continue  this  conversation.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Norreys.  ” 

And  almost  before  he  knew  she  had  gone,  she  had 
quite  disappeared. 


60 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


Despard  was  a  strong  man,  but  for  a  moment  or 
two  he  really  thought  he  was  going  to  faint.  He  had 
grown  deathly  white  while  Maisie’s  hard,  bitter  words 
rained  down  upon  him  like  hailstones ;  now  that 
she  had  left  him  he  grew  so  giddy  that,  had  he  not 
suddenly  caught  hold  of  a  tree,  he  would  have  fallen. 

“It  feels  like  a  sunstroke/'  he  said  vaguely  to  him¬ 
self,  as  he  realized  that  his  senses  were  deserting  him, 
not  knowing  that  he  spoke  aloud. 

He  did  not  know  either  that  some  one  had  seen  him 
stagger,  and  almost  fall.  A  slightly  uneasy  feeling 
had  made  Maisie  stop  as  she  hurried  off  and  glance 
back,  herself  unobserved. 

“He  looked  so  fearfully  white,"  she  said  ;  “  do — do 
men  always  look  like  that  when  girls  refuse  them,  I 
wonder  ?  ” 

For  Maisie’s  experience  of  such  things  actually  com¬ 
ing  to  the  point,  was,  as  should  be  the  case  with  all 
true  women,  but  small. 

“I  thought — I  used  to  think  I  would  enjoy  seeing 
him  humbled.  But  he  did  seem  in  earnest.  ” 

And  then  came  the  glimpse  of  the  young  fellow’s 
physical  discomfiture.  Maisie  was  horribly  fright¬ 
ened  ;  throwing  all  considerations  but  those  of 
humanity  to  the  winds  she  rushed  back  again. 

“  Perhaps  he  has  heart-disease,  though  he  looks  so 
strong,  ”  she  thought,  ‘  ‘  and  if  so— oh,  perhaps  I  have 
killed  him. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


61 


She  was  beside  him  in  an  instant  A  rustic  bench, 
which  Despard  was  too  dizzy  to  see,  stood  near.  The 
girl  seized  hold  of  his  arm  and  half  drew  it  round  her 
shoulder.  He  let  her  do  so  unresistingly. 

“Try  to  walk  a  step  or  two,  Mr.  Norreys,”  she  said, 
“I  am  very  strong.  There,  now/'  as  he  obeyed  her 
mechanically,  “here  is  a  seat,”  and  she  somehow  half 
pushed,  half  drew  him  on  to  it.  “Please  smell  this,” 
and  she  took  out  a  little  silver  vinaigrette,  of  strong 
and  pungent  contents.  “  I  am  never  without  this,  for 
papa  is  so  delicate,  you  know.  ” 

Despard  tried  to  open  his  eyes,  tried  to  speak,  but 
the  attempt  was  not  very  successful.  Maisie  held  the 
vinaigrette  close  to  his  nose  ;  he  started  back,  the 
Strong  essence  revived  him  almost  at  once.  He  took 
it  into  his  own  hand  and  smelt  it  again.  Then  his 
face  grew  crimson. 

“  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times.  I  am  most 
ashamed,  utterly  ashamed  of  myself,”  he  began. 

But  Maisie  was  too  practically  interested  in  his 
recovery  to  feel  embarrassed. 

“Keep  sniffing  at  that  thing,”  she  said  ;  “you  will 
soon  be  all  right.  Only  just  tell  me — ”  she  added 
anxiously,  “  there  isn't  anything  wrong  with  your 
heart,  is  there  ?  ” 

u  For  if  so,”  she  added  to  herself,  “I  must  at  all 
costs  run  and  see  if  there  is  a  doctor  to  be  had.” 

Despard  smiled — a  successfully  bitter  smile. 


62 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


“No,  thank  you/'  he  said.  “Iam  surprised  that 
you  credit  me  with  possessing  one/’  he  could  not 
resist  adding.  “  The  real  cause  of  this  absurd  faintness 
is  a  very  prosaic  one,  I  fancy.  I  went  a  long  walk  in 
the  hot  sun  this  morning.  ” 

“Oh,  indeed,  that  quite  explains  it,”  said  Maisie, 
slightly  nettled.  “Good-bye  again  then/' and  for  the 
second  time  she  ran  off. 

“All  the  same,  I  will  get  Conrad  or  somebody  to 
come  round  that  way,”  she  said  to  herself.  “I  will 
just  say  I  saw  a  man  looking  as  if  he  was  fainting. 
He  won't  be  likely  to  tell. ” 

And  Despard  sat  there  looking  at  the  little  silver 
toy  in  his  hands. 

“I  did  not  thank  her,”  he  said  to  himself.  “  I  sup¬ 
pose  I  should  have  done  so,  though  she  would  have 
done  as  much,  or  more,  for  a  starving  tramp  on  the 
road.” 

Then  he  heard  again  steps  coming  nearer  like  those 
which  had  startled  Maisie  away. 

They  had  apparently  turned  off  elsewhere  the  first 
time — this  time  they  came  steadily  on. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


as 


PART  IV. 

as  Despard  heard  the  steps  coming  nearer  he  looked 
round  uneasily,  with  a  vague  idea  of  hurrying  off  so  as 
to  escape  observation.  But  when  he  tried  to  stand  up 
and  walk,  he  found  that  anything  like  quick  movement 
was  beyond  him  still.  So  he  sat  down  again,  en¬ 
deavoring  to  look  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter,  and 
that  he  was  merely  resting. 

Another  moment  or  two,  and  a  young  man  ap¬ 
peared,  coming  hastily  along  the  path  by  which 
Despard  had  himself  made  his  way  into  the  shrubbery. 
He  was  quite  young,  two  or  three  and  twenty  at  most, 
fair,  slight,  and  boyish-looking.  He  passed  by  Mr. 
Norreys  with  but  the  slightest  glance  in  his  direction, 
but  just  as  Despard  was  congratulating  himself  on 
this,  the  new-comer  stopped  short,  hesitated,  and 
then,  turning  round  and  lifting  his  hat,  came  up  to 
him. 

“Excuse  me,"  he  said,  “do  you  know  Lady 
Margaret - by  sight  ?  Has  she  passed  this  way  ?  ” 

He  spoke  quickly,  and  Mr.  Norreys  did  not  catch 
the  surname. 


64 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  Sr^ACK. 


“No,”  he  replied,  “I  have  not  the  honor  of  the 
lady’s  acquaintance.” 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  the  other.  “I’ve  been 
sent  to  look  for  her,  and  I  can’t  find  her  anywhere.” 
Then  he  turned,  but  again  hesitated. 

“There’s  nothing  the  matter,  is  there?  You’ve  not 
hurt  yourself — or  anything?  You  look  rather — as  if  a 
cricket  ball  had  hit  you,  you  know.” 

Mr.  Norreys  smiled. 

“Thank  you,”  he  said.  “I  have  got  a  frightful 
pain  in  my  head.  I  was  out  too  long  in  the  sun  this 
morning.” 

The  boyish-looking  man  shook  his  head. 

“Touch  of  sunstroke — eh?  Stupid  thing  to  do, 
standing  in  the  sun  this  weather.  Should  take  a 
parasol ;  I  always  do.  Then  I  can’t  be  of  any 
service  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Despard,  as  a  sudden  idea  struck  him. 
“  If  you  happen  to  know  my  sister,  Mrs.  Selby,  by 
sight,  I’d  be  eternally  grateful  to  you  if  you  would  tell 
her  I’m  going  home.  I’ll  wait  for  her  at  the  old 
church,  would  you  say  ?  ” 

“  Don’t  know  her,  but  I’ll  find  her  out  Mrs.  Selby, 
of  Markerslea,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  take  my  advice,  and 
keep  on  the  shady  side  of  the  road.  ” 

“I  shall  go  through  the  woods,  thank  you.  My 
lister  will  understand.” 

With  a  friendly  nod  the  young  fellow  went  ofE 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


65 


Despard  had  been  roused  by  the  talk  with  him. 
He  got  up  now  and  went  slowly  round  to  the  back  of 
the  house — it  was  a  place  he  had  known  in  old  days — 
thus  avoiding  all  risk  of  coming  across  any  of  the 
guests.  By  a  path  behmd  the  stables  he  made  his 
way  slowly  into  the  woods,  and  in  about  half  an 
hour’s  time  he  found  himself  where  these  ended  at  the 
high-road,  along  which  his  sister  must  pass.  There  was 
a  stile  near,  over  which,  through  a  field,  lay  a  footpath 
to  the  church,  known  thereabouts  as  the  old  church, 
and  here  on  the  stile  Mr.  Norreys  seated  himself  to 
await  Mrs.  Selby. 

“I've  managed  that  pretty  neatly/'  he  said,  trying 
to  imagine  he  was  feeling  as  usual.  4 4 1  wonder  who 
that  fellow  was.  He  seemed  to  have  heard  Maddie's 
name  though  he  did  not  know  her." 

He  was  perfectly  clear  in  his  head  now,  but  the 
pain  in  it  was  racking.  He  tried  not  to  think,  but  in 
vain.  Clearer,  and  yet  more  clearly,  stood  out  before 
his  mind's  eye  the  strange  drama  of  that  afternoon. 
And  the  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  he  looked 
at  it,  approaching  it  from  every  side,  the  more  in¬ 
capable  he  became  of  explaining  Miss  Ford's  extraor¬ 
dinary  conduct.  The  indignation  which  had  at  first 
blotted  out  almost  all  other  feeling  gradually  gave  way 

i 

to  his  extreme  perplexity. 

“  She  had  no  sort  of  grounds  for  speaking  to  me  as 

she  did,"  he  reflected.  “  Accusing  me  vaguely  of  un- 

5 


66 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


worthy  motives — what  could  she  mean  ? "  Then  a 
new  idea  struck  him.  “Some  one  has  been  making 

mischief/'  he  thought  :  “that  must  be  it,  though  what 

* 

and  how,  I  cannot  conceive.  Gertrude  Englewood 
would  not  do  it  intentionally — but  still — I  saw  that  she 
was  changed  to  me.  I  shall  have  it  out  with  her. 
After  all,  I  hope  Madeline's  letter  has  gone." 

And  a  vague,  very  faint  hope  began  to  make  itselt 
felt,  that  perhaps,  after  all,  all  was  nol  lost.  If  she 
had  been  utterly  misled  about  him — if - 

He  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  looked  round.  It  was 
the  very  sweetest  moment  of  a  summer's  day  existence, 
that  at  which  late  afternoon  begins  softly  and  silently 
to  fade  into  early  evening.  There  was  an  almost 
Sabbath  stillness  in  the  air,  a  tender  suggestion  of 
night's  reluctant  approach,  and  from  where  Despard 
sat  the  white  headstones  of  some  graves  in  the  ancient 
churchyard  were  to  be  seen  among  the  grass.  The 
man  felt  strangely  moved  and  humbled. 

“ If  I  could  hope  ever  to  win  her,"  he  thought,  “I 
feel  as  if  I  had  it  in  me  to  be  a  better  man — I  am  not 
all  selfish  and  worldly,  Maisie — surely  not  ?  But  what 
has  made  her  judge  me  so  cruelly  ?  It  is  awful  to  re¬ 
member  what  she  said,  and  to  imagine  what  sort  of  an 
opinion  sne  must  have  of  me  to  have  been  able  to  say 
it  For — no,  that  was  not  my  contemptible  conceit " — 
and  his  face  flushed.  “She  was  beginning  to  care 
for  me.  She  is  too  generous  to  have  remembered 


THAT  GIBL  IN  BLACK . 


67 


vindictively  my  insolence,  for  insolence  it  was,  at  the 
first.  Besides,  she  said  herself  that  she  had  been 
getting  to  like  and  trust  me  as  a  friend.  Till  to-day — 
has  the  change  in  her  all  come  from  what  I  said  to¬ 
day  ?  No  girl  can  despise  a  man  for  the  fact  of  his 
caring  for  her — what  can  it  be  ?  Good  heavens,  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  go  mad  !  " 

And  he  wished  that  the  pain  in  his  head,  which  had 
somewhat  subsided,  would  get  worse  again,  if  only  it 
would  stop  his  thinking. 

But  just  then  came  the  sound  of  wheels.  In  another 
moment  Mrs.  Selby's  pony-carriage  was  in  sight 
Despard  got  off  his  stile,  and  walked  slowly  down  the 
road  to  meet  her. 

4  4  So  you  faithless - ”  she  began — for  to  tell  the 

truth,  she  had  not  attached  much  credence  to  the  story 
which  had  reached  her  of  the  frightful  headache — but 
she  changed  her  tone  the  moment  she  caught  sight  of 
his  face.  “My  poor  boy,  you  do  look  ill  !  "  she  ex¬ 
claimed.  “I  am  so  sorry.  I  would  have  come  away 
at  once  if  I  had  known." 

“  It  doesn’t  matter,"  Despard  replied,  as  he  got  into 
the  carriage  ;  “  but  did  you  not  get  my  message  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  yes  ;  but  I  thought  it  was  just  that  you  were 
tired  and  bored.  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Despard  f 
You  don't  look  the  least  like  yourself." 

“  I  fancy  it  was  the  sun  this  morning,"  he  said. 
“But  it’s  passing  off,  I  think." 


68 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


.  Madeline  leii  by  no  means  sure  that  it  was  so. 

“  I  am  so  sorry/'  she  repeateu,  “  and  so  vexed  with 
myself.  Do  you  know  who  the  young  man  was  that 
gave  me  your  message  ?  ” 

Despard  shook  his  head. 

“It  was  Mr.  Conrad  Fforde,  Lord  Southwold's 
nephew  and  heir — heir  at  least  to  the  title,  but  to  little 
else. ” 


“So  I  should  suppose,”  said  Norreys  indifferently, 
“The  South  wolds  are  very  poor.” 

“  How  queer  that  he  knew  your  name  if  you  have 
never  met  him  before,”  said  Mrs.  Selby.  “But  I  dare 
say  it’s  through  the  Flores-Carters  ;  they're  such  great 
friends  of  mine,  you  know,  and  they  are  staying  at 
Laxter's  Hill  as  well  as  the  Southwold  party.  ” 

“Yes,”  Despard  agreed,  “he  had  evidently  heard  of 

•J  s  t 

you. 


“  And  of  you  too  in  that  case.  People  do  so  chatter 
in  the  country.  The  Carters  are  dying  to  get  you  there. 
They  have  got  the  South  wolds  to  promise  to  go  to 
them  next  week.  They — the  Carter  girls— are  perfectly 
wild  about  Lady  Margaret.  I  think  it  would  be  better 
taste  not  to  make  up  to  her  so  much  ;  it  does  look  as  if 
it  was  because  she  was  what  she  is,  though  I  know  it 
isn't  really  that.  They  get  up  these  fits  of  enthusiasm. 
And  she  is  very  nice — not  very  pretty,  you  know,  but 
wonderfully  nice  and  unspoilt,  considering.  '* 

“Unspoilt,”  repeated  Despard.  He  was  glad  to 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


69 


keep  his  sister  talking  about  indifferent  matters.  “  I 
don't  see  that  poor  Lord  South  wold's  daughter  has  any 
reason  to  be  spoilt.  ” 

“Oh,  dear,  yes — didn't  you  know?  I  thought  you 
knew  everything  of  that  kind.  It  appears  that  she  is  a 
tremendous  heiress  ;  I  forget  the  figures.  The  fortune 
comes  from  her  aunt’s  husband.  Her  mother's  elder 
sister  married  an  enormously  wealthy  man,  and  as 
they  had  no  children  or  near  relations  on  his  side,  he 
left  all  to  this  girl.  Of  course  she  and  her  father  have 
always  known  it,  but  it  has  been  kept  very  quiet 
They  have  lived  in  the  country  six  months  of  the  year, 
and  travelled  the  other  six.  She  has  been  most  care* 
fully  brought  up  and  splendidly  educated.  But  she 
has  never  been  ‘out '  in  society  at  all  till  this  year." 

“I  never  remember  hearing  of  them  in  town,"  said 
Despard. 

“Oh,  Lord  Southwold  himself  never  goes  out  He 
is  dreadfully  delicate — heart-disease,  I  think.  But 
she — Lady  Margaret — will  be  heard  of  now.  It  has  all 
come  out  about  her  fortune  now  that  he  has  come 
into  the  title.  His  cousin,  the  last  earl,  only  died  two 
months  ago." 

“And,"  said  Despard,  with  a  strange  sensation,  as 
it  he  were  listening  to  some  one  else  speaking  rather 
than  speaking  himself,  “till  he  came  into  the  title, 
what  was  he  called  ?  He  was  the  last  man's  cousin, 
you  say  ?  w 


70 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


“Yes,  of  course;  he  was  Mr.  Fforde — Fferde  with 
two  ‘fVandan  ‘e/  you  know.  It’s  the  family  name 
of  the  South  wolds.  That  young  man — the  one  you 
spoke  to-^-is  Mr.  Conrad  Fforde,  as  I  told  you.  They 
$ay  that - ’' 

But  a  glance  at  her  brother  made  her  hesitate. 

“  Despard,  is  your  head  worse  ?  ”  she  asked  anx* 
iously. 

“It  comes  on  by  fits  and  starts,”  he  replied.  “  But 
don’t  mind ;  go  on  speaking.  What  were  you  going 
to  say  ?  ” 

“Oh,  only  about  young  Mr.  Fforde.  They  say  he 
is  to  marry  Lady  Margaret ;  they  are  only  second 
cousins.  But  I  don’t  think  he  looks  good  enough  for 
her.  She  seems  such  a  womanly,  nice-feeling  girL 
We  had  just  been  introduced  when  Mr.  Fforde  came 
up  with  your  message,  and  she  wanted  him  to  go  back 
to  you  at  once.  But  he  said  you  would  .  be  gone 
already,  and  I — well,  I  didn’t  quite  believe  about  your 
head  being  so  bad,  and  perhaps  I  seemed  very  cool 
about  it,  for  Lady  Margaret  really  looked  quite  vexed. 
Wash’t  it  nice  of  her?  The  Carters  had  been  telling 
her  about  us  evidently.  I  think  she  was  rather  dis¬ 
appointed  not  to  see  the  famous  Despard  Norreys,  do 
you  know  ?  I  rather  wonder  you  never  met  her  this 
summer  in  town,  though  perhaps  you  would  scarcely 
have  remarked  her  just  as  Miss  Fforde,  for  she 


THAT  GIBL  IN  BLACK. 


71 


But  an  exclamation  from  Despard  startled  her. 

’•Maddie,”  he  said,  ‘ ‘ don't  you  understand?  It 
mast  be  she — she,  this  Lady  Margaret — the  great  h*ir* 

ess  !  Good  heavens  !  ” 

Mrs.  Selby  almost  screamed. 

“  Despard  !  ”  was  all  she  could  say.  But  she  quickly 
recovered  herself.  “Well,  after  all,”  she  went  on,  “I 
don't  see  that  there’s  any  harm  done.  She  will  know 
that  you  were  absolutely  disinterested,  and  surely  that 
will  go  a  long  way.  But — just  to  think  of  it !  Oh, 
Despard,  fane  y  your  saying  that  you  half  thought  she 
was  going  to  ue  a  governess  !  Oh,  dear,  how  extraor^ 
dinary !  And  I  that  was  so  regretting  that  you  had 
not  met  her  !  What  a  good  thing  you  did  not — I  mean 
what  a  good  th  ng  that  my  letter  showing  your  ignor- 
ance  was  written  and  sent  before  you  knew  who  she 
was  !  Don't  you  see  how  lucky  it  was  ?  ” 

She  turned  round,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement 
and  eagerness.  But  there  was  no  response  in  Mr. 
Norreys*  face  ;  <  «n  the  contrary,  its  expression  was  such 
that  Mrs.  Selby's  own  face  grew  pale  with  dread. 

“Despard,’'  she  said,  “  why  do  you  look  like  that? 
You  are  not  going  to  say  that  now,  because  she  is  an 
heiress — just  because  of  money”  with  a  tone  of 
supreme  contempt,  “that  you  will  ^ive  it  ujp?  You 
surely - " 

But  Mr.  Norreys  \  iterrupted  her. 

“  Has  the  letter  geyne,  Maddie?  ” 


72 


'THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


She  nodded  her  head. 

“Then  I  must  write  again  at  once — myself— to  Ger¬ 
trude  Englewood  to  make  her  promise  on  her  honor 
never  to  tell  what  you  wrote.  Even  if  I  thought  she 
would  believe  it — and  I  am  not  sure  that  she  would — I 
could  never  allow  myself  to  be  cleared  in  her  eyes  now / 

Madeline  stared  at  him.  Had  the  sunstroke  affected 
his  brain  ? 

“Despard,”  she  said,  “what  do  you  mean?” 

He  turned  his  haggard  face  towards  her. 

“I  don’t  know  how  to  tell  you,”  he  said.  “I  wish 
I  need  not,  but  as  you  know  so  much  I  must  I  did 
see  her,  Madeline.  I  met  her  when  I  was  strolling 
about  the  shrubbery  over  there.  She  was  quite  alone 
and  no  one  near.  It  seemed  to  have  happened  on 
purpose,  and — I  told  her  all.” 

“You  proposed  to  her ? ” 

He  nodded. 

“As — as  Miss  Fforde,  or  as - ”  began  Mrs.  Selby. 

“As  Miss  Ford,  of  course,  without  the  two  *fs* 
and  the  ‘ed  at  the  end,”  he  said  bitterly.  “I  didn’t 
know  till  this  moment  either  that  her  father  was  an  earl, 
or,  which  is  much  worse,  that  she  was  a  great  heiress.” 

“  And  what  is  wrong,  then  ?  ” 

“Just  that  she  refused  me — refused  me  with  the 
most  biting  contempt — the — the  bitterest  scorn — no,  I 
cannot  speak  of  it.  She  thought  I  knew,  had  found  out 
about  her— and  now  I  see  that  my  misplaced  honesty. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


78 


Che  way  I  spoke,  must  have  given  color  to  it.  She 
taunted  me  with  my  insolence  at  the  first — good  Godl. 
whai  an  instrument  of  torture  a  woman's  tongue  can 
be  1  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do — to  stop  Gertrude’s 
ever  telling  of  that  letter.  ” 

“Oh,  Despard!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Selby,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  “  What  a  horrid  girl  she  must 
be  \  And  I  thought  she  looked  so  sweet  and  nica 
She  seemed  so  sorry  when  her  cousin  told  me  about 
you.  Tell  me,  was  that  after?  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  it 
must  have  been.  Despard,  I  believe  she  was  already 
repenting  her  cruelty.  ” 

“Hush,  Madeline/’ said  Mr.  Norreys  sternly.  “You 
mean  it  well,  but — you  must  promise  me  never  to  al¬ 
lude  to  all  this  again.  You  will  show  me  Mrs.  Engle¬ 
wood’s  letter  when  it  comes — that  you  must  do.  And 
I  will  write  to  her.  But  there  is  no  more  to  be  said. 
Let  to-day  be  between  us  as  if  it  had  never  been. 
Promise  me,  deAr.” 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  Madeline  turned  her 
tearful  eyes  towards  him. 

“  Very  well,”  she  said.  “  I  must,  I  suppose.  But, 

oh,  what  a  dreadful  pity  it  all  seems.  You  to  have 
fallen  in  love  with  her  for  herself — you  that  have  never 
really  cared  for  any  one  before — when  you  thought  her 
only  a  governess;  and  now  for  it  to  have  all  gone 
wrong  !  It  would  have  bfcen  so  nice  and  delightful.” 

“A  sort  of  Lord  Burleigh  business,  with  the  char* 


74 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


acters  reversed — yes,  quite  idyllic,  ”  said  Despard 
sneeringly. 

4 4  Despard,  don't.  It  does  so  pain  me,"  Mrs.  Selby 
said  with  real  feeling.  4  4  There  is  one  person  I  am 
furious  with,"  she  went  on  in  a  very  different  tone, 
“  and  that  is  Mrs.  Englewood.  She  had  no  business 
to  play  that  sort  of  trick." 

44  Perhaps  she  could  not  help  herself.  You  say  the 
father — Mr.  Fforde  as  he  then  was — did  not  wish  her 
to  be  known  as  an  heiress,"  said  Mr.  Norreys. 

4 4 She  might  have  made  an  exception  for  you,"  said 

* 

Madeline. 

Despard's  brows  contracted.  Mrs.  Selby  thought 
jt  was  from  the  pain  in  his  head,  but  it  was  more  than 
that.  A  vision  rose  before  him  of  a  sweet  flushed 
girlish  face,  with  gentle  pleasure  and  appeal  in  the 
eyes — and  of  Gertrude's  voice,  44  If  you  don't  dance, 
will  you  talk  to  her?  Anything  to  please  her  a  little, 
you  know." 

44 1  think  Gertrude  did  all  she  could.  I  believe  she 

% 

is  a  perfectly  loyal  and  faithful  friend,"  he  said  ;  4 4  but 
for  heaven's  sake,  Maddie,  let  us  drop  it  forever.  I 
will  Write  this  evening  to  Gertrude  myself,  and  that 
will  be  the  last  act  in  the  drama. " 

No  letter,  however,  was  written  to  Mrs.  Englewood 
that  evening — nor  the  next  day,  nor  for  that  matter 
during  the  rosi  of  the  time  that  saw  Despard  Norreys 
at  guest  a  Markerslea  Rectory. 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


?5 


And  several  days  passed  after  the  morning  that 
brought  her  reply  to  Mrs.  Selby's  letter  of  inquiry, 
before  the  person  it  chiefly  concerned  was  able  to  see 
it.  For  the  pain  in  his  head,  the  result  of  slight  sun¬ 
stroke  in  the  first  place,  aggravated  by  unusual  ex¬ 
citement,  had  culminated  in  a  sharp  attack  which  at 
one  time  was  not  many  degrees  removed  from  brain 
fever.  The  risk  was  tided  over,  however,  and  at  no 
time  was  the  young  man  in  very  serious  danger.  But 

Mrs.  Selby  suffered  quite  as  much  as  if  he  had  been 

» 

dying.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  he  would  not 
recover,  and  as  her  special  friends  received  direct 
information  to  that  effect,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  the  bad  news  flew  fast. 

It  reached  Laxter’s  Hill  one  morning  in  the  week 
following  Lady  Denster’s  garden-party.  It  was  the 
day  which  was  to  see  the  breaking-up  of  the  party 
assembled  there  to  meet  Lord  Southwold  and  his 
daughter,  and  it  came  in  a  letter  to  Edith  Flores-Carter 
from  Mrs.  Selby  herself. 

“Oh,  dear,”  the  girl  ejaculated,  her  usually  bright, 
not  to  say  jolly-looking  countenance  clouding  over  as 
she  spoke,  “oh,  dear,  I’m  so  sorry  for  the  Selbys — for 
Mrs.  Selby  particularly.  Just  fancy,  doesn’t  it  seem 
awful — her  brother’s  dying.  ” 

She  glanced  round  the  breakfast-table  for  sympathy  : 
various  expressions  of  it  reached  her. 

i 

“That  fellow  I  found  in  the  grounds  at  that  place, 


76 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


is  it ?  ^  inquired  Mr.  Fforde.  “I'm  not  surprised,  he 
Jid  look  pretty  bad,  and  he  would  walk  home,  and  he 
hadn't  even  a  parasol.” 

“  Conrad,  how  can  you  be  so  unfeeling  ?  I  perfectly 
detest  that  horrid  trick  of  joking  about  everything/’ 
said  in  sharp,  indignant  tones  a  young  lady  seated 
opposite  him.  It  was  Lady  Margaret.  Several  people 
looked  up  in  surprise. 

“  Beginning  in  good  time,”  murmured  a  man  near 
the  end  of  the  table. 

“Why,  do  you  believe  in  that?  I  don't,”  replied  his 
Companion  in  the  same  low  tone. 

Conrad  looked  across  the  table  at  his  cousin  in 
surprise.1 

“Come  now,  Maisie,”  he  said,  “  you  make  me  feel 
quite  shy,  scolding  me  so  in  company.  And  I’m  sure 
I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  witty  at  the  poor  chap’s 
expense.  If  I  did,  it  was  quite  by  mistake  I  assure 
you.  ” 

“Anything  ‘witty 'from  you  would  be  that,  I  can 
quite  believe,”  Lady  Margaret  replied,  smiling  a  little. 
But  the  smile  was  a  feeble  and  forced  one.  Conrad 
saw,  if  no  one  else  did,  that  his  cousin  was  thoroughly 
put  out,  and  he  felt  repentant,  though  he  scarcely  knew 
why. 

Half  an  hour  later  Lord  Southwold  and  his  daughter 

were  talking  together  in  the  sitting-room  where  the 

former  had  been  breakfasting  in  invalid  fashion  alone. 

t 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


n 


*€  I  would  promise  to  be  home  to-morrow,  or  the 
day  after  at  latest,  papa/’  Lady  Margaret  was  saying ; 
“Mrs.  Englewood  will  be  very  pleased  to  have  me,  I 
know,  even  at  the  shortest  notice,  for  last  week  when 
I  wrote  saying  I  feared  it  would  be  impossible,  she 
was  very  disappointed." 

“  Very  well,  my  dear,  only  don’t  stay  with  her  longer 
than  that,  for  you  know  we  have  engagements,"  and 
Lord  Southwold  sighed  a  little. 

Margaret  sighed  too. 

“My  darling,"  said  her  father,  “don’t  look  so  de 
•  pressed.  I  didn’t  mean  to  grumble." 

“Oh  no,  papa.  It  isn’t  you  at  all.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  be  at  home  again  ;  won’t  you  ?  Thank  you  very 
much  for  letting  me  go  round  by  town." 

•  *  •  •  •  i 

Mrs.  Englewood’s  drawing-room — but  looking  very 
different  from  the  last  time  we  saw  it.  Mrs.  Engle¬ 
wood  herself  with  a  more  anxious  expression  than 
usual  on  her  pleasant  face,  was  sitting  by  the  open 
window,  through  which,  however,  but  little  air  found 
its  way,  for  it  was  hot,  almost  stifling  weather. 

“  It  is  really  a  trial  to  have  to  come  back  to  town 
before  it  is  cooler,  ’’  she  was  saying  to  herself,  as  the 
door  opened  and  Lady  Margaret,  in  summer  travelling 
gear,  came  in. 


78 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


“So  you  are  really  going,  dear  Maisie,”  said  het 
hostess.  ‘  ‘  I  do  wish  you  could  have  waited  another 
day.  ” 

“But/'  said  Maisie,  “  you  will  let  me  know  at  once 
what  you  hear  from  Mrs.  Selby.  I  cannot  help  being 
unhappy,  Gertrude,  and,  of  course,  what  you  have  told 
me  has  made  me  still  more  self-reproachful,  and — and 
ashamed.  ” 

She  was  very  pale,  but  a  sudden  burning  blush  over¬ 
spread  her  face  as  she  said  the  last  words. 

“I  do  so  hope  he  will  recover,”  she  added,  trying  to 
speak  lightly,  “though  if  he  does  I  earnestly  hope  I 
shall  never  meet  him  again.” 

“Even  if  I  succeed  in  making  him  understand  your 
side,  and  showing  him  how  generously  you  regret 
having  misjudged  him?”  said  Mrs.  Englewood.  “I 
don’t  see  that  there  need  be  any  enmity  between 
you.  ” 

“Not  enmity ,  oh  no  ;  but  still  less,  friendship,”  said 
Maisie.  “I  just  trust  we  shall  never  meet  again. 
Good-bye,  dear  Gertruue.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  told 
you  all.  You  will  let  me  know  what  you  hear?  ”  and 
she  kissed  Mrs.  Englewood  affectionately. 

“Good-bye,  dear  child.  I  am  glad  you  have  not  a 
long  journey  before  you.  Stretham  will  take  good  care 
of  you.  You  quite  understand  that  I  can  do  nothing 
indirectly — it  will  only  be  when  I  see  him  himself  that 
I  can  tell  him  how  sorry  you  have  been.  ” 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


79 


“Sorry  and  ashamed ,  be  sure  to  say  ‘ashamed/” 
said  Lady  Margaret :  “  yes,  of  course,  it  can  only  be  if 
—if  he  gets  better  or  you  see  him  yourself." 

Two  or  three  days  later  came  a  letter  to  Lady  Mar¬ 
garet  from  Mrs.  Englewood,  inclosing  one  which  that 
lady  had  just  received  from  Mrs.  Selby.  Her  brother, 
she  allowed  for  the  first  time,  was  out  of  danger,  but 
“terribly  weak."  And  at  intervals  during  the  next 
few  weeks  the  girl  heard  news  of  Mr.  Norreys’  recovery. 
And  “I  wonder/’  she  began  to  say  to  herself,  “I 
wonder  if  Gertrude  has  seen  him,  or  will  be  seeing  him 
soon.  ” 

But  this  hope,  if  hope  it  should  be  called,  was 
doomed  to  disappointment.  Late  in  October  came 
another  letter  from  her  friend. 

“Iam  sorry,"  wrote  Mrs.  Englewood,  “that  I  see 
no  probability  of  my  meeting  Mr.  Norreys  for  a  long 
time.  He  is  going  abroad.  After  all,  your  paths  in 
life  are  not  likely  to  cross  each  other  again.  Perhaps 

it  is  best  to  leave  things." 

_  » 

But  the  tears  filled  Maisie’s  eyes  as  she  read.  “  I 
should  have  liked  him  to  know  I  had  come  to  do  him 
justice,"  she  thought. 

She  did  not  understand  Mrs.  Englewood’s  view  of 
the  matter. 

* 1  It  would  be  cruel,  ”  Gertrude  had  said  to  herself,  ‘  ‘  to 
tell  him  how  she  blames  herself,  and  how  my  show¬ 
ing  her  Mrs.  Selby’s  letter  had  cleared  him.  It  would 


80 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


only  bring  it  all  up  again  when  he  has  doubtless  begun 
to  forget  it.” 

Nevertheless,  Despard  did  not  leave  England  with¬ 
out  knowing  how  completely  Lady  Margaret  had  re¬ 
tracted  her  cruel  words,  and  how  bitterly  she  regretted 

§ 

them. 

•  ••••• 

Time  passes  quickly,  we  are  told,  when  we  are  hard 
at  work.  And  doubtless  this  is  true  while  the  time 
in  question  is  the  present.  But  to  look  back  upon 

time  of  which  every  day  and  every  hour  have  been 

♦ 

fully  occupied,  give  somewhat  the  feeling  of  a  closely- 
printed  volume  when  one  has  finished  reading  it 
It  seems  even  longer  than  in  anticipation.  To  Despard 
Norreys,  when  at  the  end  of  two  busy  years  he  found 
himself  again  in  England,  it  appeared  as  if  he  had 
been  absent  five  or  six  times  as  long  as  was  really  the 
case. 

He  had  been  a  week  in  England,  and  was  still  de¬ 
tained  in  town  by  details  connected  with  the  work  he 
had  successfully  accomplished.  He  was  under  promise 
to  his  sister  to  run  down  to  Markerslea  the  first  day  it 
should  be  possible,  and  time  meanwhile  hung  some¬ 
what  heavily  on  his  hands.  The  waters  had  already 
closed  over  his  former  place  in  society,  and  he  did  not 
regret  it.  Still  there  were  friends  whom  he  was  glad 
to  meet  again,  and  so  he  not  unwillingly  accepted 
some  of  the  invitations  that  began  to  find  him  out 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


81 


One  evening  after  dining  at  the  house  of  the  friend 
whose  influence  had  obtained  for  him  the  appointment 
which  had  just  expired,  he  accompanied  the  ladies  of 
the  family  to  an  evening  party  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  had  never  been  in  the  house  before  ;  the  faces  about 
him  were  unfamiliar.  Feeling  a  little  “out  of  it,”  he 
strolled  into  a  small  room  where  a  select  quartette  was 
absorbed  in  whist,  and  seated  himself  in  a  corner  some¬ 
what  out  of  the  glare  of  light,  which,  since  his  illness, 
rather  painfully  affected  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  thought  of  Maisie  Fforde  as  he  had 
last  seen  her  seemed  to  rise  before  him  as  in  a  vision. 

“I  wonder  if  she  is  married/'  he  said  to  himself 
u  Sure  to  be  so,  I  should  think.  Yet  I  should  proba¬ 
bly  have  heard  of  it  ” 

And  even  as  the  words  formed  themselves  in  his 
mind,  a  still  familiar  voice  caught  his  ear. 

“Thank  you.  Yes,  this  will  do  nicely.  I  will  wait 
here  till  Mabel  is  ready  to  go.  ” 

And  a  lady — a  girl,  he  soon  saw — came  forward  into 
the  room  towards  the  corner  where  he  was  sitting. 
He  rose  at  once  ;  she  approached  him  quickly,  then 
with  a  sudden,  incoherent  exclamation,  made  as  if  she 
would  have  drawn  back.  But  it  was  too  late ;  she 
could  not,  if  she  wished,  have  pretended  she  did  not 
see  him. 

“  Mr.  Norreys,”  she  began  ;  “I  had  no  idea - ” 

“That  I  was  in  England,"  he  said.  “No,  I  have 


82 


TEAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK . 


only  just  returned.  Pardon  me  for  having  startled  you, 
Miss  Fforde — Lady  Margaret,  I  mean.  I  on  my  side 
had  no  idea  of  meeting  you  here  or - ” 

“Or  you  would  not  have  come/’  she  in  her  turn  in¬ 
terrupted  him  with.  "  Thank  you;  you  are  frank  at 
all  events,  ”  she  added  haughtily. 

He  turned  away.  There  was  perhaps  some  involun- 

/ 

tary  suggestion  of  reproach  in  his  manner,  for  hers 
changed. 

"No,”  she  said.  "I  am  very  wrong.  Please  stay 
for  two  minutes,  and  listen  to  me.  I  have  hoped  and 
prayed  that  I  might  never  meet  you  again,  but  at  the 
same  time  I  made  a  vow — a  real  vow,”  she  went  on 
girlishly,  “that  if  l  did  so  I  would  swallow  my  pride, 
and — and  r.z k  you  to  forgive  me.  There  now — I  have 
said  it.  That  is  all.  Will  you,  Mr.  Norreys  ?  ” 

He  glanced  round ;  the  whist  party  was  all  uncon- 

•v  .  / 

scious  of  the  rest  of  the  world  still. 

4 ‘Will  you  not  sit  down  for  a  moment,  Lady  Mar¬ 
garet?  ”  he  said,  and  as  she  did  so  he  too  drew  a  chair 
nearer  to  hers.  “It  is  disagreeable  to  be  overheard,” 
he  went  on  in  a  tone  of  half  apology.  “You  ask  me 
what  I  cannot  now  do,”  he  added. 

The  girl  reared  her  head,  and  the  softness  of  her 
manner  hardened  at  once. 

"Then,”  she  said,  “we  are  quits.  It  does  just  as 
well.  My  conscience  is  clear  now.” 

"So  is  mine,  as  to  that  particular  of — of  what  you  call 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


83 


fbrgiving  you,”  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  a  degree  less 
calm.  “  I  cannot  do  so  now,  for — I  forgave  you  long, 
long  ago.” 

“You  have  seen  Mrs.  Englewood?  She  has  told 
you  at  last  that  all  was  explained  to  me — your  sister's 
letter  and  all,”  she  went  on  confusedly,  “that  I  saw 
how  horrid,  how  low  and  mean  and  suspicious  and 
everything  I  had  been  ?  ” 

“I  knew  all  you  refer  to  before  I  left  England,”  he 
said  simply.  “But  I  asked  Mrs.  Englewood  to  leave 
it  as  it  was,  unless  she  was  absolutely  forced  to  tell 
you.  I  knew  you  must  hate  the  sound  of  my  name, 
and  she  promised  to  drop  the  subject.” 

“And  I  have  scarcely  seen  her  for  a  longtime,”  said 
Maisie.  “I  saw  she  did  avoid  it,  and  I  suppose  she 

4 

thought  it  no  use  talking  about  it” 

“I  did  not  need  her  explanation,”  Despard  went  on 
gently.  “  I  had — if  you  will  have  the  word — I  had  for¬ 
given  you  long  before.  Indeed,  I  think  I  did  so  almost 
at  once.  It  was  all  natural  on  your  part.  What  had  I 
done,  what  was  I  that  you  should  have  thought  any 
good  of  me  ?  When  you  remembered  the  way  I  be- 
haved  to  you  at  first,"  and  here  his  voice  grew  very 
low.  “  I  have  never  been  able  to — I  shall  never  be 
able  to  forgive  myself. ” 

“  Mr.  Norreys !  ”  said  Maisie  in  a  very  contrite  tone. 
But  Despard  kept  silence. 

••  Are  you  going  to  stay  at  home  now,  or  are  you 


84 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


going  away  again  ?  ”  she  asked  presently,  trying  t© 
speak  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 

“I  hardly  know.  I  am  waiting  to  see  what  I  can 
get  to  do.  I  don’t  much  mind  what,  but  I  shall  never 
again  be  able  to  be  idle,”  he  said,  smiling  a  little  for 
the  first  time.  “  It  is  my  own  fault  entirely — the  fault 
of  my  own  past  folly — that  I  am  not  now  well  on  in 
the  profession  I  was  intended  for.  So  I  must  not 
grumble  if  I  have  to  take  what  work  I  can  get  in  any 
part  of  the  world.  I  would  rather  stay  in  England  fot 
some  reasons." 

“  Why  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“I  cannot  stand  heat  very  well,”  he  said.  “My 
little  sunstroke  left  some  Weak  points — my  eyes  are 
not  strong.  ” 

She  did  not  answer  at  once. 

Then,  “How  crooked  things  are,”  she  said  at  last 
suddenly  ;  “  you  want  work,  and  I — oh,  I  am  so  busy 
and  worried.  Papa  impressed  upon  me  that  I  must 
look  after  things  myself,  and  accept  the  responsibilities, 
but — I  don’t  think  he  quite  saw  how  difficult  it  would 
be,”  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

“But — ”  said  Despard,  puzzled  by  her  manner,  “he 
is  surely  able  to  help  you  ?  ” 

She  turned  to  him  more  fully — the  tears  came  more 
quickly,  but  she  did  not  mind  his  seeing  them. 

“Didn’t  you  know?”  she  said;  “papa  is  dead—® 
more  than  a  year  ago  now.  Just  before  I  came  of  age 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK , 


8& 

I  am  quite  alone.  That  silly — I  shouldn't  say  that,  he 
is  kind  and  good — Conrad  is  Lord  Southwold  now. 

*  i  ,  , 

But  I  don’t  want  to  marry  him,  though  he  is  almost  the 
only  man  who,  I  know ,  cares  for  me  for  myself.  How 
strange  you  did.  not  know  about  my  being  all  alone ! 
Didn’t  you  notice  this  ?  ”  and  she  touched  her  black  skirt 
“  I  have  never  seen  you  except  in  black,”  said  Des- 
pard.  “No — I  had  no  idea.  I  am  so  grieved." 

“If — if  you  stay  in  England,”  she  began, again  half 
timidly,  “and  you  say  you  have  forgiven  me  ” — he 
made  a  little  gesture  of  deprecation  of  the  wrord — “can't 
we  be  friends,  Mr.  Norreys  ?  " 

Despard  rose  to  his  feet.  The  whist  party  had  dis¬ 
persed.  The  little  room  was  empty. 

“No,"  he  said,  “I  am  afraid  that  could  never  be. 
Lady  Margaret.  The  one  reason  why  I  wish  to  leave 
England  again  is  that  I  know  now,  I  cannot — I  must 
not  risk  seeing  you. 

Maisie  looked  up,  the  tears  were  still  glimmering 
about  her  eyes  and  cheeks  ;  was  it  their  soft  glistening 
that  made  her  face  look  so  bright  and  almost  radiant? 

“Oh,  do  say  it  again — don't  think  me  not  nice,  oh, 
don't!”  she  entreated.  “But  why — oh,  why,  if  you 
care  for  me,  though  I  can  scarcely  believe  it,  why  let 
my  horrible  money  come  between  us?  /shall  never 
care  for  anybody  else — there  now,  I  have  said  it !  " 
And  she  tri^d  to  hide  her  face,  but  he  would  not  let 
iter.  »  , 


86 


THAT  GIRL  IN  BLACK. 


“Do  you  really  mean  it,  dear? "  he  said.  “If  you 
do,  I — I  will  swallow  my  pride,  too ;  shall  I  ?  * 

She  looked  up,  half  laughing  now. 

“Quits  again,  you  see.  Oh,  dear,  how  dreadfully 
happy  I  am !  And  you  know,  as  you  are  so  fond  of 
work  now,  you  will  have  lots  to  do.  All  manner  of 
things  for  poor  people  that  I  want  to  manage,  and 
don't  know  how — and  all  our  own — I  won't  say  ‘  my  9 
any  more — tenants  to  look  after — and — and ” 

“  ‘That  girl  in  black'  herself  to  take  care  of,  and 
make  as  happy  as  all  my  love  and  my  strength,  and 
my  life's  devotion  can,"  said  Despard.  “  Maisie,  my 
darling,  God  grant  that  you  may  never  regret  your 
generosity  and  goodness." 

“No,  no,"  she  murmured,  “yours  are  far  greater, 
far,  far  greater. " 

t.  • 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  suddenly 
Despard  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  held  ouA 
something  to  Maisie. 

“Look,"  he  said,  “do  you  remember?  I  should 

have  returned  it  to  you,  but  I  could  not  make  up  my 

♦ 

mind  to  it.  I  have  never  parted  with  it  night  or  day, 
all  these  years." 

It  was  the  little  silver  vinaigrette. 

•  •  •  .  •  •  .# 

This  all  happened  several  years  ago,  and,  by  what 
I  can  gather,  there  are  few  happier  people  than 
pard  Norreys  and  Lady  Margaret,  his  wife. 


THE  GIRLS  AND 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I 


CHAPTER  t 

« 

OURSELVES. 

I'm  Jack.  I've  always  been  Jack,  ever  since  t  cat 
remember  at  least,  though  I  suppose  I  must  have  been 
called  “Baby”  for  a  bit  before  Serena  came.  But 
she's  only  a  year  and  a  half  younger  than  me,  and 
Maud's  only  a  year  and  a  quarter  behind  her,  so  I  can 
scarcely  remember  even  Serena  being  “Baby;”  and 
Maud's  always  been  so  very  grown  up  for  her  age  that 
you  couldn't  fancy  her  anything  but  Maud. 

My  real  name  isn't  John  though,  as  you  might  fancy. 

It's  a  much  queerer  name,  but  there's  always  been  one 

of  it  in  our  family  ever  since  some  grandfather  or  other 

married  a  German  girl,  who  called  her  eldest  son  after 

her  ,own  father.  So  we're  accustomed  to  it,  and  it 

doesn't  seem  so  queer  to  us  as  to  other  people.  It's 

“Joachim.”  “Jock”  seems  a  better  short  for  it  than 

“Jack,”  doesn't  it?  and  I  believe  mother  once  meant 

i  89 


90 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


to  call  me  “Jock.”  But  when  Serry  and  Maud  camel 
had  to  be  Jack,  for  with  Anne  and  Hebe  in  front  of  me, 
and  the  two  others  behind,  of  course  I  was  “Jack-in- 
the-middle.  ”  There’s  never  been  any  more  of  us,  and 
even  if  there  had  I’d  have  stayed  Jack,  once  I’d  got 
settled  into  it,  you  see. 

I’m  eleven.  I’m  writing  this  in  the  holidays  ;  and  if 
I  don’t  get  it  finished  before  they’re  done  I’ll  keep  add¬ 
ing  on  to  it  till  I’ve  told  all  there  is  to  tell. 

It’s  a  sort  of  comfort  to  me  to  write  about  everything, 
for  one  way  and  another  I’ve  had  a  good  deal  to  put  up 
with,  all  because  of — girls .  And  I  have  to  be  good- 
tempered  and  nice  just  because  they  are  girls.  And 
besides  that,  I’m  really  very  fond  of  them  ;  and  they’re 
not  bad.  But  no  one  who  hasn’t  tried  it  knows  in  the 
least  what  it  is  to  be  one  boy  among  a  lot  of  girls, 
’specially  when  some  of  them  are  rather  boy-ey  girls, 
and  when  you  yourself  are  just  a  little  perhaps — just  a 
very  little — the  other  way. 

I  don’t  think  I’m  a  baby.  Honestly  I  don’t,  and  I’m  not 
going  to  write  down  anything  I  don’t  quite  think.  But 
I  do  like  to  be  quiet,  and  I  like  to  have  things  tidy  and 
regular.  I  like  rules  and  keeping  to  them  ;  and  I  hate 
racket  and  mess.  Anne,  now,  drives  me  nearly  wild 
with  her  rushy,  helter-skelter  ways.  You  wouldn’t 
think  it,  would  you,  considering  that  she’s  fourteen, 
and  the  eldest,  and  that  she’s  been  the  eldest  all  her 
life? — eldests  should  be  steady  and  good  examples. 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


91 


And  her  name  sounds  steady  and  neat,  doesn't  it? 
and  yet  of  all  the  untidy,  unpunctual — no,  I  mustn't 
let  myself  go  like  that.  Besides,  it's  quite  true,  as  Hebe 
says,  Anne  has  got  a  very  good  heart,  and  she's  very 
particular  in  some  mind  ways  ;  she  never  says  a  word 
that  isn’t  quite  true — she  doesn't  even  exaggerate.  I 
have  noticed  that  rather  tiresome,  careless  people  often 
have  very  good  hearts.  I  wish  they  could  see  how 
much  nicer  it  would  be  for  other  people  if  they'd 
put  some  of  their  good  hearts  into  their  tiresome 
ways. 

On  the  whole,  it's  Hebe  that  suits  the  best  with  me. 
She's  particular — much  more  particular  than  Anne, 
though  not  quite  as  particular  as  I'd  like  her  to  be,  and 
then  she  is  really  awfully  sweet.  That  makes  her  a  little 
worrying  sometimes,  for  she  will  take  sides.  If  I  am 
in  a  great  state  at  finding  our  postage  stamps  all  mud¬ 
dled,  for  instance — Anne  and  Hebe  and  I  have  a  col¬ 
lection  together,  I  am  sorry  to  say — and  /  know  who's 
been  at  them  and  say  something — who  could  help  say¬ 
ing  something  if  they  found  a  lot  of  carefully-sorted 
ones  ready  to  gum  in,  all  pitched  into  the  unsorted  box 
with  Uncle  Brian's  last  envelopeful  that  I  haven't  looked 
over? — up  flies  Hebe  in  Anne's  defence. 

“  Poor  Anne,  she  was  in  such  a  hurry,  she  never 
meant  it  ;  "  or  “  she  only  wanted  to  help  you,  Jack; 
she  didn't  know  you  had  sorted  these." 

Now,  isn't  that  rather  trying  ?  For  it  makes  me  feel 


92 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I . 


as  if  I  was  horrid  ;  and  if  Hebe  would  just  say,  “  Yes, 
it  is  awfully  tiresome,  '’  I’d  feel  I  had  a  sort  of  right  to 
be  vexed,  and  when  you  feel  that,  the  vexedness  often 
goes  away. 

Still,  there’s  no  doubt  Hebe  is  sweet,  and  I  daresay 
she  flies  up  for  me  just  as  she  does  for  the  others  when 
I  am  the  one  not  there. 

We  re  all  very  fond  of  Hebe.  She  and  Serena  are 
rather  like  each  other;  they  have  fair  fluffy*  hair  and 
rosy  cheeks,  but  they’re  not  a  bit  like  each  other  in 
themselves.  Serena  is  a  terrible  tomboy — worse  than 

Anne,  for  she  really  never  thinks  at  all.  Anne  does 

» 

mean  to  think,  but  she  does  it  the  wrong  way  ;  she  getfs 
he^head  so  full  of  some  one  thing  that  she  forgets  every¬ 
thing  else,  and  then  she’s  awfully  sorry.  But  Serry 
just  doesn’t  think  at  all,  though  she’s  very  good-natured, 
and,  of  course,  when  it  comes  to  really  vexing  or  hurt- 
ing  any  one,  she’s  sorry  too — for  about  a  minute  and 


a  half ! 

And there’s  Maud.  It  is  very  funny  about 
Maud,  uie  oddest  thing  about  us,  though  we  are  rather 
a  topsy-turvy  family.  Maud  is  only  eight  and  a  half, 
but  she's  the  oldest  of  us  all. 

“  She’s  that  terrible  old-fashioned,”  mother’s  old 

nurse  said  when  she  :g^me  to  pay  us  a  visit  once,  “  she’s 

„  * 

scarce  canny. 

They  call  me  old-fashioned  sometimes,  but  I’m 
nothing  to  Maud.  Why,  bless  you  (I  learnt  that  from 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


98 


Old  nurse,  and  I  like  it,  and  nobody  can  say  it's  naughty 
to  bless  anybody),  compared  to  Maud  I'm  careless,  and 
untidy,  and  unpunctual,  and  heedless,  and  everything 
of  these  kinds  that  I  shouldn’t  be.  And  yet  she  and 
I  don’t  get  on  as  well  as  Hebe  and  I  do,  and  in  some 
ways  even  not  as  well  as  Anne  and  I  do.  But  Maud 
and  Anne  get  on  very  well — I  never  saw  anything  like 
it.  She  tidies  for  Anne  ;  she  reminds  her  of  things 
she’s  going  to  forget;  she  seems  to  think  she  was  sent 
into  the  world  to  take  care  of  her  big  sister.  Anne  is 
big — at  least  she’s  tall — tall  and  thin,  and  with  rather 
smooth  dark  hair.  My  goodness !  if  she’d  had  fluffy 
hair  like  us  three  middle  ones — for  even  mine  is  rather 
a  bother,  it  grows  so  fast  and  is  so  curly — what  woi$d 
she  hciV2  looked  like?  She  seems  meant  to  be  neat, 
and  till  you  know  her,  and  go  her  all  over  pretty  closely, 
yo/’d  never  guess  how  untidy  she  is — pins  ajl  over, 
even  though  Sophy  is  always  mending  her  frocks  and 
Ihings.  And  Maud  is  dark  too,  though  her  hair  is  curly 
like  ours  ;  she’s  like  a  gipsy,  people  say,  bjjt^^’s  not 
a  bit  gipsy  in  her  ways — oh  dear,  no  ! 

We  live  in  London — mostly,  that’s  to  say.  We’ve 
got  a  big  dark  old  house  that  really  belongs  to  grand* 
father,  but  he’s  so  little  there  that  he  lets  us  use  it,  for 
father  has  to  be  in  London  a  lot.  We’re  always  there 
in  winter  ;  that’s  the  time  grandfather’s  generally  in 
France  or  Egypt,  or  somewhere  warm.  Now  and  then, 
if  he's  later  of  going  away  than  usual,  or  sooner  of 


94 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


Coming  back,  he's  with  us  a  while  in  London.  We 
don't  like  it  much. 

That  sounds  unkind.  I  don't  mean  to  be  unkind. 
P m  just  writing  everything  down  because  I  want  to 
practise  myself  at  it.  Father  writes  books — very  clever 
ones,  though  they're  stories.  I've  read  bits,  but  I  didn't 
understand  them  much,  only  I  know  they're  very  clever 
by  the  fuss  that's  made  about  them.  And  people  won¬ 
der  how  ever  he  gets  time  to  write  them  with  all  the 
Government  things  he  does  too.  He  must  be  very 
clever  ;  that’s  what  put  it  in  my  head  that  perhaps  some 
day  I  might  be  clever  that  way  too.  For  I  don't  want 
to  be  either  a  soldier  or  a  sailor,  or  a  lawyer  like  father 
was  before  he  got  into  Government  things,  and  I'm  sure 
I'm  not  good  enough  to  be  a  parson,  though  I  think  I'd 
rather  like  it  •  and  so  sometimes  I  really  get  frightened 
that  I'll  be  no  good  at  anything  at  all,  and  a  boy  must 
be  something. 

I  think  father  and  mother  would  be  pleased  if  I  were 
a  great  writer. 

And  then  we  really  have  had  some  adventures  :  that 
makes  it  more  interesting  to  make  out  a  story  about  our¬ 
selves,  for  I  think  a  book  just  about  getting  up  and  go* 
ing  to  bed,  and  breakfast,  and  dinner,  and  tea,  would 
be  very  stupid — though,  all  the  same,  in  story-books  I 
do  like  rather  to  know  what  the  children  have  to  eat, 
and  something  about  the  place  they  live  in  too. 

To  go  back  about  grandfather.  The  reason  we  dont 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


95 


much  like  his  being  with  us  isn’t  exactly  that  we  don't 
care  for  him.  He’s  not  bad.  But  father’s  his  only 
child,  and  our  grandmother  died  a  good  while  ago,  and 
I  think  she  must  have  been  a  very  giving-in  sort  of  per¬ 
son,  and  that's  bad  training  for  any  one.  When  I'm 
grown  up,  if  ever  I  marry,  I  shall  settle  with  my 
wife  before  we  start  that  she  mustn't  give  in  to  me  too 
much,  and  I'll  stick  to  it  once  it’s  settled.  For  I’ve 
got  rather  a  nasty  temper,  and  I  feel  in  me  that  if  I  was 
to  get  too  much  of  my  own  way  it  would  get  horrid. 
Its  perhaps  because  of  that  that  it's  been  a  good  thing 
for  me  to  have  four  sisters,  for  they're  nearly  as  bad  as 
four  wives  sometimes.  I  don't  get  too  much  of  my 
own  way  at  present,  I  can  tell  you. 

I  often  think  I'm  rather  like  grandfather.  P'raps  if 
he'd  had  four  sisters  or  a  not-too-giving-in  wife  he'd  have 
been  better.  Now,  I  hope  that's  not  rude  ?  I  don't 
mean  it  to  be ;  I'm  rather  excusing  him.  And  I  can't 
put  down  what  isn't  true,  even  though  nobody  should 
ever  see  this  “  veracious  history  " — that's  what  I'm  go¬ 
ing  to  put  on  the  title-page — except  myself.  And  the 
truth  is  that  grandfather  expects  everybody  and  every¬ 
thing  to  give  in  to  him.  Not  always  father,  for  he  does 
see  how  grand  and  clever  father  is,  and  that  he  can't 
be  expected  to  come  and  go,  and  do  things,  and  give 
up  things,  just  like  a  baby.  But  oh,  as  for  poor  little 
mums ! — that's  mother — her  life's  not  her  own  when 
gran's  with  us.  And  it  isn't  that  she's  silly  a  bit  She's 


96 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


awfully  sensible ;  something  like  Hebe  and  Maud 
mixed  together,  though  to  look  at  her  she's  more  like 
Anne.  It’s  real  goodness  makes  her  give  in. 

“He’s  getting  old,  dears,  you  know,”  she  says, 
“  and  practically  he’s  so  very  good  to  us.” 

I’m  not  quite  sure  that  I  understand  quite  what 
tl  practically  ”  means.  I  think  it’s  to  do  with  the  house 
— or  the  houses,  for  we’ve  got  two — and  money.  For 
father,  though  he's  so  clever,  wouldn’t  be  rich  without 
grandfather,  I  don’t  think.  Perhaps  it  means  presents 
too.  He — grandfather — isn’t  bad  about  presents.  He 
never  forgets  birthdays  or  Christmases — oh,  dear,  no, 
he’s  got  an  ayj/ully  good  memory.  Sometimes  some 
of  us  would  almost  rather  be  worse  off  for  presents  if 
only  he’d  forget  some  other  things. 

I’m  like  him  about  remembering  too.  I  think  my 
mind  is  rather  tidy,  as  well  as  my  outside  ways.  I’ve 
got  things  very  neat  inside ;  I  often  feel  as  if  it  was  a 
cupboard,  and  I  like  to  know  exactly  which  shelf  to 
goto  for  anything  I  want.  Mums  says,  “That’s  all 
very  well  so  far  as  it  goes,  Jack,  but  don’t  stop  short 
at  that,  or  you  will  be  in  danger  of  growing  narrow¬ 
minded  and  self-satisfied.” 

And  I  think  I  know  what  she  means.  There  are 
some  things  now  about  Anne,  for  all  her  tiresome 
ways,  that  I  know  are  grander  than  about  me,  or  even 
perhaps  than  about  Hebe,  only  Hebe's  sweetness 
makes  up  for  everything.  But  Anne  would  give  any- 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


97 


thing  in  a  moment  to  do  any  one  a  good  turn.  And  I 
— well,  I'd  think  about  it.  I  didn't  at  all  like  having  to 
tear  up  my  nice  pocket-handkerchief  even  the  day  we 
found  the  poor  little  boy  with  his  leg  bleeding  so  dread¬ 
fully  in  the  Park,  and  Anne  had  hers  in  strips  in  a 
moment.  And  she'll  lend  her  very  best  things  to  any 
one  of  us.  And  she's  got  feelings  I  don't  understand. 
Beautiful  church  music  makes  her  want  so  dreadfully 
to  be  good,  she  says.  I  like  it  very  much,  but  I  don't 
think  I  feel  it  that  way.  I  just  feel  nice  and  quiet,  and 
almost  a  little  sleepy  if  it  goes  on  a  good  while. 

I  was  telling  about  our  house  in  London.  It’s  big, 
and  rather  grand  in  a  dull  sort  of  way,  but  dark  and 
gloomy.  Long  ago,  when  they  built  big  houses,  I 
think  they  fancied  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  make  them 
dark.  It's  nice  in  winter  when  it's  shut  up  for  the 
night,  and  the  gas  lighted  in  the  hall  and  on  the  stair¬ 
cases,  and  with  the  lamps  in  the  dining-room  and  draw¬ 
ing-room  and  library — it  is  very  warm  and  comfortable 
then,  and  though  the  furniture's  old-fashioned,  and  not 
a  pretty  kind  of  old-fashioned,  it  looks  grand  in  a  way. 
But  when  the  spring  comes,  and  thd  bright  days  show 
ap  all  the  dinginess,  poor  mother,  how  she  does  sigh  ! 

“  I  would  so  like  to  have  a  pretty  house,"  she  says. 

The  curtains  are  all  so  dark,  you  can  scarcely  see 
they’re  any  color  at  all,  and  those  dreadful  heavy  gilt 
frames  to  the  mirrors  in  the  drawing-rooms  !  Oh,  Alan,” 
—Alan  is  father — “don't  you  think  gran  would  let  us 

7 


98 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


refurnish  even  the  third  drawing-room  ?  I  could  make 
it  a  sort  of  boudoir,  you  know,  and  I  could  have  my 
own  friends  in  there  in  the  daytime  The  rooms  don't 
look  so  bad  at  night." 

But  father  shakes  his  head 

“  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't  like  it,"  he  says. 

So  I  suppose  even  father  gives  in  a  good  deal  to 
gran. 

Mums  isn’t  a  bit  selfish.  The  brightest  rooms  in  the 
house  have  always  been  ours.  They're  two  floors  over 
the  drawing-rooms,  which  are  really  very  big  rooms. 
We  have  a  nursey,  and  on  one  side  of  it  a  dressing-room 
— that's  mine — and  two  other  rooms,  with  two  beds 
each  for  the  girls.  We  do  our  lessons  in  the  study — a 
little  room  in  front  of  the  dining-room,  very  jolly,  for 
it  looks  to  the  front,  and  the  street  is  wide,  and  we  can 
see  all  the  barrel-organs  and  monkeys,  and  Punch  and 
Judys,  and  bands,  when  we're  doing  our  lessons.  I 
don't  mean  when  we’re  having  our  lessons  ;  that's 
‘  different.  My  goodness  !  I'd  like  to  see  even  Serry 
try  to  look  out  of  the  window  when  Miss  Stirling  is 
there !  Miss  Stirling's  our  governess.  She  comes, 
you  know  ;  she's  not  a  living-in-the-house  one,  and  she's 
pretty  strict,  so  we  like  her  best  the  way  she  is.  But 

doing  our  lessons  is  when  we're  learning  them.  Most 

# 

days,  in  winter  anyway,  we  go  a  walk  till  four,  or  a 
quarter  to,  and  then  we  learn  for  an  hour,  and  then 
we  have  tea  ;  and  if  we're  not  finished,  we  come  down 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


99 


again  till  half-past  six  or  so,  and  then  we  dress  to  go 
into  the  drawing-room  to  mums. 

She  nearly  always  dresses  for  dinner  early,  so  we 
have  an  hour  with  her.  The  little  ones,  Serena  and 
Maud,  never  have  much  to  learn.  It's  Anne  and  Hebe 
and  me.  We  all  do  Latin — I  mean  we  three  do.  And 
twice  a  week  Miss  Stirling  takes  Anne  and  Hebe  to 
French  and  German  classes  for  “  advanced  pupils/1 
I’m  not  an  advanced  pupil,  so  those  mornings  I  work 
alone  for  two  hours,  and  then  Tve  not  much  to  do  in 
the  evening  those  days.  And  Miss  Stirling  gives  me 
French  and  German  the  days  that  the  girls  are  at  their 
music  with  Mrs.  Meux,  their  music-teacher. 

That’s  how  we’ve  done  for  a  long  time — ages.  But 
next  year  I’m  going  to  school. 

I’m  to  go  when  I’m  twelve.  My  birthday  comes  in 
November.  It’s  just  been;  that’s  how  I  said  4 ‘Fm 
eleven,”  not  eleven  and  a  quarter,  or  eleven  and  a  half 
— just  eleven.  And  I’m  to  go  at  the  end  of  the  Christ¬ 
mas  holidays  after  that.  I  don’t  much  mind  ;  at  least 
I  don’t  think  I  do.  I’ll  have  more  lessons  and  more 
games  in  a  regular  way,  and  I’ll  have  less  worries,  any¬ 
way  at  first.  For  I  shall  be  counted  a  small  boy,  of 
course,  and  I  shan’t  have  to  look  after  others  and  be 
blamed  for  them,  the  way  I  have  to  look  after  the  girls 
at  home.  It’ll  really  be  a  sort  of  rest.  I’ve  had  such 
a  lot  of  looking  after  other  people.  I  really  have. 

Mums  says  so  herself  sometimes.  She  even  says  1 


100 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


have  to  look  after  her.  And  it's  true.  She's  awfully 
good — she’s  almost  an  angel — but  she's  a  tiny  bit  like 
Anne.  She's  rather  untidy.  Not  to  look  at,  ever. 
She's  as  neat  as  a  pin,  and  then  she's  very  pretty  ; 
but  she’s  careless — she  says  so  herself.  She  so  often 
loses  things,  because  she's  got  a  trick  of  putting  them 
down  anywhere  she  happens  to  be.  Often  and  often 
I  go  to  her  room  when  she’s  dressing,  and  tap  at  the 
door  and  say — 

“  Have  you  lost  something,  mums  ?  " 

And  ten  to  one  she'll  call  back — 

“  Yes,  my  dear  town-crier,  I  have."  (“  My  gloves, n 
or  “  my  card-case,"  or  “  my  keys,"  or,  oh  !  almost  any¬ 
thing.)  “But  I  wasn't  worrying  about  it;  I  knew 
you’d  find  it,  Jack." 

And  Maud  does  finder  for  Anne,  just  the  same  way, 
only  her  finding  sometimes  gets  me  into  trouble.  Just 
fancy  that.  If  Anne  loses  something,  and  Maud  Is 
hunting  away  and  doesn't  find  it  all  at  once,  they'll 
turn  upon  me — they  truly  will — and  say — 

“You  might  help  her,  Jack,  you  really  might,  poor 
little  thing  !  It's  no  trouble  to  you  to  run  up  and  down 
stairs,  and  she’s  so  little." 

When  that  sort  of  thing  happens,  I  do  feel  that  I've 
got  a  rather  nasty  temper. 

I've  begun  about  losing  things,  because  our  adven¬ 
tures  had  to  do  with  a  very  big  losing.  The  first  adven¬ 
ture  came  straight  from  it,  and  the  rest  had  to  do  with  it 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


101 


It’s  funny  how  things  hang  together  like  that.  You 
think  of  something  that’s  come,  and  you  remember 
what  made  it  happen,  and  then  you  go  back  to  the 
beginning  of  that ,  and  you  see  it  came  from  something 
else  ;  and  you  go  on  feeling  it  out  like,  till  you’re  quite 
astonished  to  find  what  a  perfectly  different  thing  had 
started  it  all  from  what  you  would  have  thought 

I  think  this  will  be  a  good  place  for  ending  the  first 

♦ 

chapter,  which  isn’t  really  like  a  story — only  an  ex* 
planation  of  us. 

And  in  the  next  I’ll  begin  about  our  adventures. 


102 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  DIAMOND  ORNAMENT. 

It  was  two  years  ago  nearly  ;  it  was  the  end  of 
February — no,  I  think  it  was  a  little  way  on  in  March. 
So  I  was  only  nine  and  a  quarter,  and  Anne  was  about 
twelve,  and  all  the  others  in  proportion  younger  than 

they  are  now,  of  course.  You  can  count  their  ages, 

%  '  •  1  ' r 

if  you  like,  though  I  don't  know  who  “you”  are,  or  if 
there's  ever  going  to  be  any  “you”  at  all.  But  it's 
the  sort  of  thing  I  like  to  do  myself  when  I  read  a  story. 
I  count  all  the  people’s  ages,  and  the  times  they  did 
things,  and  that  things  are  said  to  have  happened,  and 
I  can  tell  you  that  very  often  I  find  that  authors  make 
very  stupid  mistakes.  I  told  father  of  this  once,  and  I 
said  I'd  like  to  write  and  tell  them.  He  laughed,  but 
he  called  me  a  prig,  which  I  didn't  like,  so  I  never  have 
written  to  any  of  them. 

That  winter  began  early,  and  was  very  cold,  but  it 
went  early  too.  So  grandfather  took  it  into  his  head 
to  come  back  to  England  the  end  of  February,  for  a 
bit,  meaning  to  go  on  somewhere  else — to  Ireland,  I 
think,  where  we  have  some  relations — after  he'd  been 
in  London,  a  fortnight  or  so. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


103 


It  all  came — all  that  I’ve  got  to  tell — of  gran's  re¬ 
turning  from  the  hot  place  he’d  been  at,  whichever  it 
was,  so  much  sooner  than  usual. 

There  was  going  to  be  a  Drawing-room  just  about 
the  end  of  the  fortnight  he  was  to  be  with  us,  and  mums 
was  going  to  it.  She  had  fixed  it  a  good  while  ago, 
because  she  was  going  to  take  some  friends — a  girl 
who’d  got  married  to  a  cousin  of  father’s,  and  another 
girl — to  be  presented.  They  were  both  rather  pretty. 
We  saw  them  in  the  morning,  when  they  came  for 
mums  to  take  them.  I  thought  the  married  one  pret¬ 
tiest  ;  she  had  nice  laughing  eyes.  If  ever  I  marry, 
I’d  like  a  girl  with  laughing  eyes  ;  they  look  so  jolly. 
The  other  one  was  rather  cross,  I  thought,  and  so  did 
Maud.  But  Anne  said  she  was  interesting-looking,  as 
if  she  had  a  hidden  sorrow,  like  in  poetry.  And  after 
that,  none  of  us  quite  dared  to  say  she  was  only  cross- 
looking.  And  she  wasn’t  really  cross  ;  we  found  that 
out  afterwards.  It  was  only  the  way  her  face  was 
made. 

Her  name  was  Judith,  and  the  married  one  Was 
Dorothea.  We  always  call  her  that,  as  she’s  our 
cousin. 

They  were  prettily  dressed,  both  of  them.  All  white. 
But  Dorothea’s  dress  went  rather  in  creases.  It  iooked 
too  loose.  I  went  all  round  her,  ever  so  many  times, 
peeping  at  it,  though  she  didn’t  know,  of  course.  I 
can  tell  when  a  dress  fits,  as  well  as  anybody,  because 


104 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


of  helping  to  dress  mums  so  often.  Sometimes,  for  a 
change  from  the  town-crier,  mums  calls  me  a  man- 
milliner.  I  don't  mind. 

Judith's  dress  was  all  right.  It  was  of  silk,  a  soft 
kind,  not  near  so  liney  as  satin.  I  like  it  better. 
They  were  both  very  neat.  No  pins  or  hairpins  stick¬ 
ing  out. 

But  mums  looked  prettiest.  I  can  tell  you  how  she 
was  dressed,  because  she's  not  been  at  a  Drawing-room 
since,  for  last  spring  and  summer  she  got  a  cold  or 
something  both  times  she  meant  to  go.  By  rights  she 
should  go  every  year,  because  of  what  father  is.  I 
hope  she'll  go  next  spring,  for  after  that  I  shall  be  at 
school,  and  never  able  to  see  her,  and  I  do  love  to  look 
at  her  all  grand  like  that.  She  says  she  doesn’t  know 
how  she’ll  do  without  me  for  seeing  she’s  all  right. 

Well,  her  dress  was  blue  and  pale  pink,  the  train 
blue — a  flowery  pattern — and  she  had  blue  and  pink 

bunches  of  feathers  all  sticking  about  it  ;  no  flowers 

% 

except  her  nosegay,  which  was  blushing  roses  tied 
with  blue  streamers. 

She  did  look  nice. 

Her  hair  looked  grander  than  usual,  because  of  some¬ 
thing  she  had  never  had  in  it  before,  and  that  was  a 
beautiful  diamond  twisty-twirly  thing.  I  have  never 
seen  a  diamond  brooch  or  pin  quite  like  it,  though  I 
often  look  in  the  jewellers'  windows. 

She  was  very  proud  of  it,  though  she’d  only  got  the 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1 .  105 

loan  of  it.  I  must  go  back  a  bit  to  tell  you  how  she 
had  got  it. 

A  day  or  two  before  grandfather  left,  mums  told  him 
about  the  Drawing-room.  If  she  had  known  he  was 
going  to  be  with  us  then,  she  wouldn’t  have  fixed  to  go 
to  it  ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  he  takes  up  nearly  all  her 
time,  especially  when  he’s  only  there  for  a  short  visit. 
I  suppose  I  shouldn’t  call  it  a  visit,  as  it’s  his  own  house, 
but  it  seems  the  best  word.  And  for  her  to  be  a  whole 
day  out,  not  in  at  luncheon,  and  a  train-show  at  after¬ 
noon  tea-time,  would  have  been  just  what  he  doesn't 
like.  But  it  couldn’t  be  helped  now,  as  others  were 
counting  on  her,  especially  Mrs.  Chasserton,  our  cous¬ 
in’s  wife — that’s  Dorothea. 

We  were  there — Anne,  Hebe,  and  I — when  mother 
told  gran  about  it  We  really  felt  rather  frightened, 
but  she  said  it  so  sweetly,  I  felt  sure  he  couldn't  be 
vexed.  And  he  wasn’t.  He  did  frudge  up  his  eye¬ 
brows —  “  frudge  ”  is  a  word  we’ve  made  ourselves,  it 
does  do  so  well ;  we’ve  made  several — and  they  are 
very  thick.  Anne  opened  her  mouth  in  a  silly  way  she 
has,  just  enough  to  make  him  say,  “What  are  you 
gaping  at,  Miss  Anne,  may  I  ask?”  but  luckily  he 
didn’t  notice.  And  Hebe  squeezed  my  hand  under  the 
table-cloth.  It  was  breakfast-time.  But  in  a  minute  he 
unfrudged  his  eyebrows,  and  then  we  knew  it  was  over. 

“  Quite  right,  my  dear  Valeria,”  he  said.  Valeria  is 
mums’  name;  isn’t  it  pretty?  “I  am  very  glad  for 


106 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


you  to  show  attention  to  Dick's  wife— quite  right,  as 
you  are  at  the  head  of  the  family.  As  for  Judith  Merthyr 
— h-m — h-m — she's  a  strong-minded  young  woman, 
I'm  told — don’t  care  about  strong-minded  young  women 
— wonder  she  condescends  to  such  frivolity.  And  thank 
you,  my  dear,  for  your  consideration  for  me.  But  it 
won't  be  needed  I  must  leave  for  Holyhead  on  Tues¬ 
day.  They  are  expecting  me  at  Tilly'  something  or 
other  (I  don't  mean  that  gran  said  that,  but  I  can't  re¬ 
member  these  long  Irish  names). 

Tuesday  was  the  day  before  the  Drawing-room.  I'm 
sure  mums  clapped  her  inside  hands — that's  another  of 
our  makings  up — I  know  we  did.  For  if  gran  had  been 
there  I  don't  believe  we'd  have  got  in  to  the  train-show 
at  all.  And  of  course  it's  much  jollier  to  be  in  the 

drawing-room  in  the  afternoon,  waiting  for  them  to 

• 

come  back,  and  speaking  to  the  people  that  are  there, 
and  getting  a  good  many  extra  teas  and  sandwiches 
and  cakes  and  ices,  than  just  to  see  mums  start  in  the 
morning,  however  pretty  she  looks. 

Grandfather  was  really  rather  wonderful  that  day. 

“  What  are  you  going  to  wear,  my  dear  Valeria  ?" 
he  asked  mother. 

She  told  him. 

“H-m,  h-m,"  he  said.  He  has  different  ways  of 
h-ming.  This  time  it  was  all  right,  not  like  when  he 
spoke  of  Judy  Merthyr.  And  actually  a  smile  broke 
over  his  face. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


107 


The  night  before  he  was  leaving  he  came  into  the 
drawing-room  just  before  dinner-time  looking  very 
smiley.  He  was  holding  something  in  his  hand — a 
dark  leather  case. 

j 

“My  dear  child,”  he  said,  and  though  we  were  all 
five  there  we  knew  he  was  speaking  to^mother.  I  like 
to  hear  mother  called  “my  dear  child ” — father  does  it 
sometimes — it  makes  her  seem  so  nice  and  young. 
“  My  dear  child,”  he  said,  “I  have  got  something  here 
that  I  want  you  to  wear  in  your  hair  at  the  Drawing- 
room.  I  cannot  give  it  to  you  out  and  out,  though  I 
mean  you  to  have  it  some  day,  but  I  want  to  lend  it 
you  for  as  long  as  you  like.  ” 

And  then  he  opened  the  case,  mother  standing  close 
*>y,  and  all  of  us  trying  to  peep  too.  It  was  the  twisty- 
twirly  diamond  ornament.  A  sort  of  knot — big  dia¬ 
monds  in  the  middle  and  littler  ones  in  and  out.  It  is 
awful  pretty.  I  never  saw  diamonds  sparkle  so — you 
can  see  every  color  in  them  when  you  look  close,  like 
thousands  of  prisms,  you  know.  It  had  a  case  on  pur¬ 
pose  for  it,  and  there  were  pins  of  different  shapes  and 
sizes,  so  that  it  could  be  a  brooch,  or  a  hair-pin,  or  a 
hanging  thing  without  a  pin  at  all 
Mums  was  pleased. 

“  Oh,  thank  you,  dear  gran,”  she  said.  “  It  is  good 
of  you.  Yes,  indeed,  I  shall  be  proud  to  have  such  a 
lovely,  splendid  ornament  in  my  hair.  ” 

Then  grandfather  took  it  out  of  the  case,  and  showed 


108 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


her  all  the  different  ways  of  fastening  in  the  pins.  They 
had  little  screws  at  their  ends,  and  they  all  fitted  in  so 
neatly,  it  was  quite  interesting  to  see. 

“You  will  wear  it  in  your  hair  on  Wednesday,  no 
doubt,”  he  said.  “So  I  will  fasten  in  the  hair-pin — 
there,  you  see  it  screws  quite  firmly.” 

And  then  he  gave  it  to  mother,  and  she  took  it  up¬ 
stairs  and  put  it  away. 

The  next  night — grandfather  had  left  that  morning — 
father  and  mother  were  going  out  to  dinner.  Mother 
dresses  rather  early  generally,  so  that  she  can  be  with 
us  a  little,  but  that  night  she  had  been  busy,  and  she 
was  rather  late.  She  called  us  into  her  room  when  she 
was  nearly  ready,  not  to  disappoint  us,  and  because 
we  always  like  to  see  her  dressed.  She  had  on  a  red 
dress  that  night,  I  remember. 

Her  maid,  Rowley,  had  put  out  all  the  things  on  the 
toilet-table.  When  mums  isn’t  in  a  hurry  I  often  choose 
for  her  what  she’s  going  to  wear — we  spread  all  the 
cases  out  and  then  we  settle.  But  to-night  there  wasn't 
time  for  that.  Rowley  had  got  out  a  lot  of  things,  be¬ 
cause  she  didn’t  know  which  mother  would  choose,  and 
among  them  the  new,  grand,  diamond  thing  of  grand¬ 
father’s. 

“  Oh,”  said  Anne — she  and  I  were  first  at  the  toilet- 
table, —  “  are  you  going  to  wear  gran’s  ornament, 
mother  ?  ” 

“No,  of  course  not,”  said  mums.  “It’s  only  for 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I . 


109 


very  grand  occasions,  and  to-night  is  quite  a  small 
dinner.  I’ve  got  on  all  the  jewelry  I  need.  But,  Jack, 
do  help  me  to  fasten  this  bracelet,  there’s  a  good  boy.  ” 
Rowley  was  fussing  away  at  something  that  wasn't 
quite  right  in  mother’s  skirt.  Mother  was  rather  im¬ 
patient,  and  the  bracelet  was  fidgety. 

But  at  last  I  got  it  done,  and  Rowley  stood  up  with 
rather  a  red  face  from  tacking  the  sweepy,  lacey  thing 
that  had  come  undone.  Mums  flew  off. 

“  Good-night,  dears,”  she  said.  “  I  haven’t  even 
time  to  kiss  you.  Father  has  gone  down,  and  the 
carriage  has  been  there  ever  so  long.  ” 

The  girls  called  out  “ good-night,”  and  Hebe  and  I 
ran  to  the  top  of  the  staircase  to  watch  her  go  down. 
Then  we  went  straight  back  to  the  nursery,  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  the  three  others  came  in.  Maud  was 

„  f 

saying  something  to  Anne,  and  Anne  was  laughing 
at  her. 

“Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  little  prig  as  Maud?” 
she  said.  “  She’s  actually  scolding  me  because  I  was 
looking  at  mums’  jewels.” 

“  Anne  made  them  all  untidy,”  said  Maud. 

“  Well,  Rowley’ll  tidy  them  again.  She  came  back 

on  purpose ;  she’d  only  gone  down  to  put  mother’* 

% 

cloak  on,”  said  Anne  carelessly. 

“Anne,”  said  I  rather  sharply.  You  see  I  knew 
her  ways,  and  mums  often  leaves  me  in  charge. 
“Were  you  playing  with  mother’s  jewels  ?  ” 


110 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


“I  was  doing  no  harm,”  said  Anne;  “I  was  only 
looking  at  the  way  the  pins  fasten  in  to  that  big 
diamond  thing.  It's  quite  right,  Jack,  you  needn't 
fuss.  Rowley's  putting  them  all  away.” 

So  I  didn’t  say  any  more. 

And  to-morrow  was  the  Drawing-room  day. 

Mother  looked  beautiful,  as  I  said.  We  watched  her 
start  with  the  two  others,  Cousin  Dorothea  and  Miss 
Merthyr.  It  was  rather  a  cold  day  ;  they  took  lots 
of  warm  cloaks  in  the  carriage.  I  remember  hearing 
Judy — we  call  her  Judy  now — say, 

“You  must  take  plenty  of  wraps,  Mrs.  Warwick,” 
— that’s  mother.  “  My  aunt  made  me  bring  a  fur  cape 
that  I  thought  I  should  not  wear  again  this  year ;  it 
would  never  do  for  you  to  catch  cold.” 

Mums  does  look  rather  delicate,  but  she  isn’t  delicate 
really.  She’s  never  ill.  But  Judith  looked  at  her  so 
nicely  when  she  said  that  about  not  catching  cold,  that 
the  cross  look  went  quite  out  of  her  face,  and  I  saw  it 
was  only  something  about  her  eyebrows.  And  I  began 
to  think  she  must  be  rather  nice. 

But  we  didn’t  see  her  again.  She  did  not  get  out 
of  the  carriage  when  they  came  back  in  the  afternoon, 
but  went  straight  home  to  her  own  house.  Some¬ 
body  of  hers  was  ill  there.  Cousin  Dorothea  came 
back  with  mother,  and  three  other  ladies  in  trains 
came  too,  >so  there  was  rather  a  good  show. 

And  everybody  was  laughing  and  talking,  and  we’d 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I.  Ill 

all  had  two  or  three  little  teas  and  several  ices,  and  it 
was  all  very  jolly  when  a  dreadful  thing  happened. 

I  was  standing  by  mother.  I  had  brought  her  a  cup 
of  tea  from  the  end  drawing-room  where  Rowley  and 

i 

the  others  were  pouring  it  out,  and  she  was  just  drink¬ 
ing  it,  when  I  happened  to  look  up  at  her  head. 

“  Mums/'  I  said,  “why  have  you  taken  out  gran’s 
diamond  thing?  It  looked  so  nice.” 

Mums  put  her  hand  to  her  head — to  the  place  where 
she  knew  she  had  put  in  the  pin  :  of  course  it  wasn’t 
there,  I  wouldn’t  have  made  such  a  mistake. 

Mums  grew  white — really  white.  I  never  saw  her  like 
that  except  once  when  father  was  thrown  from  his  horse. 

“Oh,  Jack,”  she  said,  “are  you  sure?”  and  she 
kept  feeling  all  over  her  hair  among  the  feathers  and 
hanging  lacey  things,  as  if  she  thought  it  must  be  stick¬ 
ing  about  somewhere. 

“Stoop  down,  mums,”  I  said,  “and  I’ll  have  a  good 
look.” 

There  weren’t  many  people  there  just  then— several 
had  gone,  and  several  were  having  tea.  So  mums  sat 
down  on  a  low  chair,  and  I  poked  all  over  her 
hair.  But  of  course  the  pin  was  gone — no,  I  shouldn’t 
say  the  pin ,  for  it  was  there  ;  its  top,  with  the  screwy 
end,  was  sticking  up,  but  the  beautiful  diamond  thing 
was  gone  ! 

I  drew  out  the  pin,  and  mother  gave  a  little  cry  of 
joy  as  she  felt  me. 


112 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


“Oh,  it’s  there/'  she  said,  “  there  after  all - ” 

“No,  dear/'  I  said  quickly,  “it  isn't.  Look — it’s 
only  the  pin. " 

Mother  seized  it,  and  looked  at  it  with  great  puzzle 
as  well  as  trouble  in  her  eyes. 

“It's  come  undone,"  she  said,  “yet  how  could  it 
have  done  ?  Gran  fixed  it  on  himself,  and  he's  so  very 
particular.  There's  a  little  catch  that  fastens  it  to  the 
pin  as  well  as  the  screw — see  here,  Jack,"  and  she 
showed  me  the  catch,  ‘  ‘  that  couldn't  have  come  undone 
if  it  was  fastened  when  I  put  it  on.  And  I  know  gran 
clicked  it,  as  well  as  screwing  the  head  in." 

She  stared  at  me,  as  if  she  thought  it  couldn't  be 
true,  and  as  if  explaining  about  it  would  make  it  come 

back  somehow. 

* 

Several  ladies  came  up,  and  she  began  telling  them 
about  it.  Cousin  Dorothea  had  gone,  but  these  other 
ladies  were  all  very  sorry  for  her,  and  indeed  any  one 
woufd  have  been,  poor  little  mother  looked  so  dread¬ 
fully  troubled. 

One  of  them  took  up  the  pin  and  examined  it 
closely. 

“There's  one  comfort,"  she  said,  “  it  hasn’t  been 
stolen.  You  see  it's  not  been  cut  off,  and  that's  what 
very  clever  thieves  do  sometimes.  They  nip  off  a  jewel 
in  a  crowd,  quite  noiselessly  and  in  half  a  second.  I've 
been  told.  No,  Mrs.  Warwick,  it's  dropped  off,  and  by 
advertising  and  offering  a  good  reward  you  may  very 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


113 


likely  get  it  back.  But — excuse  me — it  was  very  care¬ 
less  of  your  maid  not  to  see  that  it  was  properly 
fastened.  A  very  valuable  thing,  I  suppose  it  is  ?  " 
“It's  more  than  valuable,"  said  poor  mother.  “It's 
an  heirloom,  quite  irreplaceable.  I  do  not  know  how  I 
shall  ever  have  courage  to  tell  my  father-in-law.  No,  I 
can't  blame  my  maid.  I  told  her  not  to  touch  it,  as  the 

General  had  fastened  it  himself  all  ready.  But  how 

* 

can  it  have  come  undone  ?  ”  . 

At  that  moment  Anne  and  Hebe,  who  had  been  hav* 
ing  a  little  refreshment  no  doubt,  came  into  the  front 

4 

drawing-room  where  we  were.  They  saw  there  was 
something  the  matter,  and  when  they  got  close  to 
mother  and  saw  what  she  was  holding  in  her  hand,  for 
the  lady  had  given  it  back  to  her,  they  seemed  to  know 
in  a  moment  what  had  happened.  And  Anne's  mputh 
opened,  the  way  it  does  when  she's  startled  or  fright¬ 
ened,  and  she  stood  staring. 

Then  I  knew  what  it  meant 


114 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


CHAPTER  III. 

WORK  FOR  THE  TOWN-CRIER, 

“Oh,  those  girls,”  I  thought  to  myself;  “why  did 
I  leave  them  alone  in  mother's  room  with  all  her  things 
about  ? ” 

But  Anne's  face  made  me  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  say 
anything — not  before  all  those  people  ;  though  of  course 
I  knew  that  as  soon  as  she  could  see  mother  alone  she 
would  tell,  herself.  I  was  turning  away,  thinking  it 
would  be  better  to  wait — for,  you  see,  mother  was  not 
blaming  any  one  else — when  all  of  a  sudden  Maud  ran 
up.  She  was  all  dressed  up  very  nicely,  of  course ; 
and  she's  a  pretty  little  thing,  everybody  says,  and 
then  she's  the  youngest.  So  a  lot  of  people  had  been 
petting  her  and  making  a  fuss  about  her.  Maud  doesn't 
like  that  at  all.  She's  not  the  least  bit  conceited  or 
spoilt,  and  she  really  is  so  sensible  that  I  think  it  teases 
her  to  be  spoken  to  as  if  she  was  only  a  baby.  Her 
face  was  rather  red,  I  remember ;  she  had  been  trying 
to  get  away  from  those  ladies  without  being  at  all  rude, 
for  she's  far  too  “  ladylike  "  to  be  rude  ever.  And  now 
she  ran  up,  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  her  dear  Anne  as 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L  115 

i  » 

usual.  But  the  moment  she  saw  Anne's  face  she  knew 
that  something  was  wrong.  For  one  thing,  Anne's 
mouth  was  wide  open,  and  I  have  told  you  about 
Anne's  mouth.  Then  there  was  the  pin  in  mother's 
hand,  the  hairpin,  and  no  top  to  it !  And  mums  look¬ 
ing  so  troubled,  and  all  the  ladies  round  her. 

4  4  What  is  it?  ”  said  Maud  in  her  quick  way.  “Oh — . 
is  mums'  brooch  broken  ?  Oh,  Anne,  you  shouldn't 
have  touched  it !  " 

Everybody — mother  and  everybody — turned  to 
Anne ;  I  was  sorry  for  her.  It  wasn't  like  Maud  to 
have  called  it  out,  she  is  generally  so  careful ;  but  you 
see  she  was  startled,  and  she  only  thought  the  diamond 
thing  was  broken  or  loosened. 

Anne's  face  grew  scarlet. 

“What  do  you  mean,  Maudie?"  said  mother. 
“  Anne,  what  does  she  mean  ? " 

It  was  hard  upon  Anne,  for  it  looked  as  if  she  hadn't 
been  going  to  tell,  and  that  wasn't  at  all  her  way.  In 
another  moment  I  daresay  she  would  have  blurted  it 
out ;  but  then,  you  see,  she  had  hardly  had  time  to 
take  in  that  most  likely  she  had  caused  the  mischief, 
for  she  knew  she  hadn't  meant  to,  and  she  quite 
thought  she  had  left  the  pin  just  as  firmly  fastened  as 
she  had  found  it. 

“Oh,  mother,"  she  cried,  “I  didn't  think — I  never 
meant — I'm  sure  I  screwed  it  in  again  quite  the 


same. 


116 


THE  GIRLS  AND  J. 


“  When  did  you  touch  it  ?  I  don’t  understand  any¬ 
thing  about  it.  Jack,  what  do  Anne  and  Maud  mean  ? 99 
said  poor  mums,  turning  to  me. 

It  was  my  fault,”  I  said.  “I  shouldn’t  have  left 
any  one  in  your  room,  with  all  your  things  about,  and 
Rowley  even  not  there.” 

4 ‘And  I  did  tell  Anne  not  to  touch  the  diamond 
brooch,”  said  Maud.  For  once  she  really  seemed  quite 
angry  with  Anne. 

Then  we  told  mother  all  there  was  to  tell — at  least 
Anne  did,  for  she  knew  the  most  of  course.  She  had 
been  fiddling  at  the  diamond  thing  all  the  time  she  was 
standing  by  the  table,  but  no  one  had  noticed  her  ex¬ 
cept  Maud.  For  you  remember  mums  was  in  a  great 
hurry,  and  I  was  helping  her  to  fasten  her  bracelet, 
and  Rowley  was  fussing  at  her  skirt,  and  then  Hebe 
and  I  went  half-way  downstairs  to  see  mother  start 
Oh,  dear,  I  did  feel  vexed  with  myself !  Anne  said 
she  wanted  to  see  how  the  ornament  could  be  turned 
into  different  things  ;  she  had  unscrewed  the  pin  and 
unclicked  the  little  catch,  and  then  she  had  fixed  in  the 
other  kind  of  pin  to  make  it  into  a  brooch,  and  she 
wanted  to  try  the  screw  with  a  ring  to  it,  to  make  it,  a 
hanging  ornament,  but  Maud  wouldn’t  let  her  stay. 
So  she  screwed  in  the  hairpin  again — the  one  that  gran 
had  fastened  in  himself.  She  meant  to  do  it  quite  tight, 
but  she  couldn’t  remember  if  she  clicked  the  little  catch. 
And  she  was  in  a  hurry,  so  no  doubt  she  did  it  carelessly. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


117 


That  was  really  about  all  Anne  had  to  tell. 

But  it  was  plain  that  it  had  been  her  fault  that  the 
beautiful  ornament  was  lost.  It  had  dropped  off. 
Mums  didn't  say  very  much  to  her :  it  wouldn't  have 

done  before  all  the  visitors.  They  were  very  good- 

« 

natured,  and  very  sorry  for  mother.  And  several 
people  said  again  what  a  good  thing  it  was  it  was  only 
lost,  not  stolen,  for  that  gave  ever  so  much  more 
chance  of  finding  it. 

* 

When  all  the  people  had  gone,  father  came  in. 
Mother  had  still  her  dress  on,  but  she  was  looking 
very  white  and  tired,  and  in  a  moment,  like  Maud, 
he  saw  that  there  was  something  the  matter. 

He  was  very  vexed,  dreadfully  vexed,  only  he  was 
too  good  to  scold  Anne  very  much.  And  indeed  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  do  so,  she  looked  such  a 
miserable  creature,  her  eyes  nearly  swollen  out  of  her 
head  with  crying.  And  we  were  all  pretty  bad — even 
Serry,  who  never  troubles  herself  much  about  any¬ 
thing,  looked  solemn.  And  as  for  me,  I  just  couldn't 
forgive  myself  for  not  having  stayed  in  mother's  room 
and  seen  to  putting  away  her  jewel-cases,  as  I  gen¬ 
erally  do. 

Father  set  to  work  at  once.  First  he  made  mother 
stand  up  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  he  called 
Rowley,  and  he  and  Rowley  and  I  and  Hebe  shook 
out  her  train  and  poked  into  every  little  fluthery  ruffle 
—there  was  a  lot  of  fustled-up  net  inside  the  edge,  just 


118 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


the  place  for  the  diamond  thing  to  get  caught  in,  and 
we  made  her  shake  herself  and  turn  out  her  pocket  and 
everything.  But  it  was  no  use.  Then — the  poor  little 
thing  was  nearly  dead,  she  was  so  tired  ! — father  made 
her  go  to  take  off  her  finery,  telling  Rowley  to  look 
over  all  the  dress  again  when  mother  had  got  out  of  it 
Then  he  and  I  went  out  together  to  the  coach-house, 
first  telling  all  the  servants  of  the  loss,  and  making 
them  hunt  over  the  hall  and  up  and  down  the  stairs ; 
it  was  really  quite  exciting,  though  it  was  horrid  too, 
knowing  that  father  and  mother  were  so  vexed  and 
Anne  so  miserable. 

We  found  the  coachman  just  washing  the  carriage. 
We  got  into  it,  and  poked  into  every  corner,  and  shook 
out  the  rugs,  and  just  did  everything,  even  to  looking 
on  the  front  door-steps  behind  the  scraper,  and  in  the 
gutter,  and  shaking  out  the  roll  of  carpet  that  had  been 
laid  down.  For  father  is  splendid  at  anything  like 
that ;  he’s  so  practical,  and  I  think  I  take  after  him. 
(I  don’t  know  but  what  I’d  like  best  of  all  to  be  a  pri¬ 
vate  detective  when  I  grow  up.  I’ll  speak  to  father 
about  it  some  day.) 

But  all  was  no  use,  and  when  we  came  up  to  the 
drawing-room  again  there  was  mums  in  her  crimson 
tea-gown,  looking  so  anxious.  It  went  to  my  heart 
to  have  to  shake  my  head,  especially  when  poor 
Anne  came  out  of  a  comer  looking  like  a  dozen 
ghosts. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


119 


Still,  we  had  rather  a  nice  evening  after  all,  though 
it  seems  odd.  It  was  all  thanks  to  father.  He  made 
us  three  come  down  to  dinner  with  mums  and  him, 
“To  cheer  your  mother  up  a  little,”  he  said,  though  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  there  was  much  cheering  to  be 
got  out  of  Anne.  In  reality  I  think  he  did  it  as  much 
for  Anne's  sake  as  for  mums'.  And  Hebe  was  very 
sweet  to  Anne,  for  they  don't  always  get  on  so  very 
well.  Hebe  sometimes  does  elder  sister  too  much, 
which  is  bad  enough  when  one  is  elder  sister,  but 
rather  too  bad  when  one  isn't,  even  if  it  is  the  real 
elder  sister's  own  fault  But  to-night  Hebe  sat  close 
to  Anne,  holding  her  hand  under  the  tablecloth,  and 
trying  to  make  her  eat  some  pudding.  (It  was 
chocolate  pudding,  I  remember,  and  mother  gave  us 
each  some.)  And  when  dessert  was  on  the  table,  and 
the  servants  had  gone,  father  called  Anne  to  him,  and 
put  his  arm  round  her. 

“My  dear  little  girl,"  he  said,  “you  must  try  to 
leave  off  crying.  It  only  makes  mother  more  troubled. 
I  can't  deny  that  this  loss  is  a  great  vexation  :  it  will 
annoy  grandfather,  and — well,  there's  no  use  telling 
you  what  you  know  already.  But  of  course  it  isn’t  as 
bad  as  some  troubles,  and  even  though  I'm  afraid 
I  can't  deny  that  it  has  come  through  your  fault,  it 
isn't  as  bad  as  if  your  fault  had  been  a  worse  one 
^-unkindness,  or  untruthfulness,  or  some  piece  of 
«Nflshness.” 


120 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


Anne  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  sobbed  and 
choked,  and  said  something  we  couldn’t  hear. 

‘  ‘  But  still  carelessness  is  a  great  fault,  and  causes  trou¬ 
bles  without  end,”  father  went  on.  “  And  in  this  case 
it  was  meddlesomeness  too.  I  do  hope - ” 

“  Oh,  father,”  said  Anne,  looking  up,  “  I  know  what 
you’re  going  to  say.  Yes,  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  me  : 
you’ll  see.  I  shall  be  quite  different,  and  ever  so  much 
more  thoughtful  and  careful  from  now.” 

And  of  course  she  meant  what  she  said. 

But  father  looked  grave  still. 

“  My  dear  child,  don’t  be  too  confident.  You  won’t 
find  that  you  can  cure  yourself  all  at  once.  The  force 
of  bad  habit  is  almost  harder  to  overcome  in  small 
things  than  in  great ;  it  is  so  unconscious.  ” 

“  Yes,  father,”  said  Anne. 

She  understood  what  he  said  better  than  I  did  then  ; 
for  she  is  really  clever — much  cleverer  than  I  am  about 
poetry  and  thinking  sort  of  cleverness,  though  I  have 
such  a  good  memory.  So  I  remembered  what  father 
said,  and  now  I  understand  it. 

After  dinner  we  went  up  to  the  littlest  drawing-room 
— the  one  mother  wanted  for  so  long  to  refurnish 
prettily.  There  was  a  fire,  for  it  was  only  March  and 
mums  sat  in  one  of  the  big  old  armchairs  close  to  it, 
and  Anne  and  Hebe  beside  her.  And  father  drew  a 
chair  to  mum’s  writing-table,  and  wrote  out  several 
advertisements  for  the  next  morning’s  papers,  which 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


121 


he  sent  off  to  the  offices  that  very  evening.  Some  were 

I  ' 

in  the  next  morning,  and  some  weren’t  ;  but  it  didn't 
much  matter,  for  none  of  them  did  any  good.  Before 
he  sent  them  he  inquired  of  all  the  servants  if  they 
had  looked  everywhere  he  had  told  them  to. 

“  There  is  just  a  chance  of  daylight  showing  it  in 
some  corner,"  he  said,  when  he  had  done  all  this,  and 
come  to  sit  down  beside  mums. 

“  I  don't  know  that,"  she  said.  “  This  house  is  so 
dark  by  day.  But,  after  all,  the  chance  of  its  being 
here  is  very  small." 

“  Yes,"  father  said,  “  I  have  more  hope  in  the  ad¬ 
vertisements." 

4 4  And,  "  mother  went  on,  her  voice  sounding  almost 
as  if  she  was  going  to  cry — I  believe  she  kept  it  back  a 
good  deal  for  Anne's  sake — “  if — if  they  don't  bring 
anything,  what  about  telling  your  father,  Alan  ?  " 

<(  Alan  "  is  father's  name — “  Alan  Joachim,"  and 
mine  is  “  Joachim  Gerald." 

Father  considered. 

♦ 

<£  We  must  wait  a  little.  It  will  be  a  good  while 
before  I  quite  give  up  hopes  of  it.  And  there's  no  use 
in  spoiling  gran's  time  in  Ireland  ;  for  there's  no  doubt 
the  news  would  spoil  it — he's  the  sort  of  person  to  fret 
tremendously  over  a  thing  of  the  kind." 

“  I'm  afraid  he  is,"  said  mother,  and  she  sighed 
deeply. 

But  hearing  a  faint  sob  from  Anne,  father  gave  mothef 


122 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


a  tiny  sign,  and  then  he  asked  us  if  we’d  like  him  to 

read  aloud  a  little  sort  of  fairy  story  he'd  been  writing 

• 

for  some  magazine.  Of  course  we  all  said  “  Yes;" 
we're  very  proud  if  ever  he  offers  to  read  us  anything, 
even  though  we  mayn't  understand  it  very  well ;  but 
this  time  we  did  understand  it — Anne  best  of  all,  I  ex¬ 
pect.  And  when  he  had  finished,  it  was  time  for  us  to 
go  to  bed. 

We  had  had,  as  I  told  you,  rather  an  extra  nice  even¬ 
ing  after  all,  and  father  had  managed  to  make  poor 
mums  more  cheerful  and  hopeful. 

It  got  worse  again,  however,  the  next  day,  when  the 
hours  went  on,  and  there  came  no  letter  or  telegram 
or  anything  about  the  lost  treasure.  For  mother  had 
got  to  feel  almost  sure  the  advertisements  would  bring 
some  news  of  it.  And  father  was  very  late  of  coming 
home.  It  was  a  dreadfully  busy  time  for  him  just  then. 
We  were  all  in  bed  before  he  came  in,  both  that  night 
and  the  next,  I  remember,  for  I  know  he  looked  in  to  say 
good-night  to  me,  and  to  say  he  hoped  we  were  all 
being  as  good  as  we  could  be  to  mums. 

I  think  we  were,  and  to  Anne  too,  for  we  were  nearly 
as  sorry  for  her.  I  had  never  known  her  mind  about 
anything  so  much,  or  for  so  long.  Serry  began  to  be 
rather  tired  of  it. 

“  It's  so  awfully  dull  to  see  Anne  going  about  with 
such  a  long  face,"  she  said  the  second  evening,  when 
we  were  all  sitting  with  mother.  “  Mums  herself 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


123 


doesn't  look  half  so  gloomy.  Mums,  do  tell  Anne  not 
to  be  so  cross  ;  it  can’t  be  as  bad  for  her  as  for  you.” 

“  You’re  very  unkind,  Serry,”  said  Maud,  bristling 
up  for  Anne  ;  44  and,  after  all,  I  think  you  might  feel  a 
little  sorry  too.  You  joined  Anne  in  looking  overall 
mothers  things  that  night,  you  know  you  did,  and 
you  only  laughed  when  I  said  you’d  left  them  in  a 
mess.  ” 

Serry  only  laughed  now.  She  tossed  back  her  fluffy 
hair — it’s  a  way  of  hers,  and  I  must  say  she  looks  very 
pretty  when  she  does  it. 

“  It's  not  my  nature  to  fuss  about  things,”  she  said, 
“  It  wouldn’t  suit  my  name  if  I  did  ;  would  it,  mums? 
And  you  are  such  a  little  preacher,  Maud.” 

It  was  funny  to  hear  Maud.  It’s  funny  still,  for  she 
looks  such  a  mite,  but  two  years  ago  it  was  even  fun¬ 
nier.  For  she  was  only  six  and  a  half  then,  though  she 
spoke  just  as  well  as  she  does  now.  I  can’t  remember 
ever  hearing  Maud  talk  babyishly. 

44  Don’t  begin  quarrelling  about  it,  my  dear  children,  ” 
said  mother.  44  That  certainly  won’t  do  any  good. 
And,  Anne,  you  must  just  try  to  put  it  off  your  mind  a 
little,  as  I  am  doing.” 

4 4  I  can’t”  said  Anne.  44  I’ve  never  been  so  long 
sorry  about  anything  in  my  life.  I  didn’t  know  any 
one  could,  be.  I  dream  about  it  all  night,  too — the 
most  provoking  dreams  of  finding  it  in  all  sorts  of  places. 
Last  night  I  dreamt  I  found  it  in  my  teacup,  when  I 


124 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


had  finished  drinking  my  tea,  and  it  seemed  so  dread¬ 
fully  real ’  you  don't  know.  I  could  scarcely  help 
thinking  it  would  be  in  my  cup  this  morning  at  break¬ 
fast." 

“  Oh,"  said  Serena,  “  that  was  why  you  were  staring 
at  the  dregs  so,  and  sighing  so  dolefully.  ” 

But  Anne  didn't  pay  any  attention  to  her. 

“  Mother,"  she  said,  “  you  don't  think  it  could  mea?i 
anything — my  dream,  I  mean  ?  Could  it  be  that  we 
are  to  look  all  through  the  teacups  in  the  pantry,  for 
you  know  there  were  a  great  lot  in  the  drawing-room 
that  day,  and  it  might  have  dropped  into  one  that  wasn't 
used,  and  got  put  away  without  being  washed. " 

Mums  smiled  a  little. 

“  I'm  afraid  that's  wildly  improbable,"  she  said; 

but  if  you  like  to  go  downstairs  and  tell  Barstow 
about  your  dream,  you  may.  It  may  inspirit  them  all 
to  go  on  looking,  for  I'm  afraid  they  have  given  up 
hopes. " 

Barstow  is  the  butler.  He's  very  nice,  and  he  was 
with  father  since  he — I  mean,  father — was  a  baby  ;  he's 
been  always  with  gran,  or  what  he  calls  “  in  the  fam¬ 
ily.”  He's  .only  got  one  fault,  and  that  is,  he  can't 
keep  a  footman.  We've  just  had  shoals ,  and  now  father 
and  mother  say  they  really  can't  help  it,  and  Barstow 
must  settle  them  for  himself.  Since  they’ve  said  that 
the  last  two  have  stayed  rather  longer. 

But  he’s  most  exceedingly  jolly  to  us.  Mums  says 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


125 


he  spoils  us,  but  I  don’t  think  he  does,  for  hes  very 

particular.  Lots  of  footmen,  have  been  sent  away 

*  * 

because  he  didn’t  think  they  spoke  properly  for  us  to 
hear.  He  was  terribly  shocked  one  day  when  Serry 
said  something-  was  “  like  blazes,  ”  and  still  worse  when 
he  caught  me  pretending  to  smoke.  He  was  sure 
James  or  Thomas  had  taught  me,  say  what  I  would, 
and  of  course  I  was  only  humbugging. 

I  think  mums  sent  Anne  down  to  talk  to  old  Barstow 
a  bit,  partly  to  cheer  her  up.  Anne  was  away  about  ten 
minutes.  When  she  came  back  she  did  look  rather 
brighter,  though  she  shook  her  head.  She  was  holding 
a  note  in  her  hand. 

'■'v 

“No,”  she  said;  “Barstow  was  very  nice,  and  he 
made  Alfred  climb  up  to  look  at  some  cups  on  a  high 
shelf  that  hadn’t  been  used  the  Drawing-room  day — 
they’d  just  been  brought  up  in  case  the  others  ran 
short.  But  there  was  nothing  there.  At  least — look, 
mother,”  she  went  on,  holding  out  the  letter.  “Fancy, 
Alfred  found  this  on  the  shelf.  Barstow  is  so  angry, 
and  Alfred  s  dreadfully  sorry,  and  I  said  I’d  ask  you  to 
forgive  him.  It  came  that  evening,  when  we  were  all 
in  such  a  fuss,  and  he  forgot  to  give  it  you.  He  was 
carrying  down  a  tray  and  put  the  note  on  it,  meaning 
to  take  it  up  to  the  drawing-room.  And  somehow  it 
got  among  the  extra  cups.  ” 

Mums  took  the  note  and  began  to  open  it. 

“  I  haven’t  the  heart  to  scold  any  one  for  being  care- 


126 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


less  just  now/' she  said,  and  then  she  unfolded  the 
letter  and  read  it. 

“I'm  rather  glad  of  this,”  she  said,  looking  up. 
“And  it  is  a  good  thing  it  was  found,  Anne,  otherwise 
Mrs.  Liddell  would  have  thought  me  very  rude.  It  is 
from  her  to  say  that  the  dancing-class  begins  again 
on — let  me  see — yes,  it’s  to-morrow,  Saturday,  and  she 
wants  to  know  how  many  of  you  are  coming.  It's  to 
be  at  her  house,  like  last  year.  I  must  send  her  a  word 
at  once.  ” 

Mrs.  Liddell's  house  isn't  far  from  ours,  and  it's  very 
big.  There's  a  room  with  no  carpet  on,  where  we 
dance.  She  likes  to  have  the  class  at  her  house, 
because  her  children  are  awfully  delicate,  or,  anyway, 
she  thinks  they  are ;  and  if  it's  the  least  cold  or  wet, 
she's  afraid  to  let  them  go  out.  They  come  up  to 
town  early  in  the  spring,  and  it  suits  very  well  for  us 
to  go  to  their  class,  as  it's  so  near. 

We  rather  like  it.  There's  more  girls  than  boys,  of 
course — a  lot — but  I  don't  mind,  because  there  are  two 
or  three  about  my  size,  and  one  a  bit  bigger,  though 
he’s  younger. 

We  were  not  sorry  to  hear  it  was  to  begin  again,  and 
we  all  said  to  mums  that  she  should  let  Maud  come 
too.  Maud  had  never  been  yet,  and  Serry  had  only 
been  one  year.  Mums  wasn’t  sure.  Dancing  is 
rather  expensive,  you  know,  but  she  said  shevd  ask 
father. 


rHE  GIRLS.  AND  L  127 

“The  class  is  to  be  every  Saturday  afternoon,  like 
last  year,”  she  said.  “That  will  do  very  well/' 

“  But  do  persuade  father  to  let  Maud  come  too/’  we 
all  said. 

It  wasn't  till  afterwards  that  I  thought  to  myself 
that  I  would  look  absurder  than  ever — the  only  boy  to 
four  sisters  !  It  was  bad  enough  the  year  before  with 
three, 


128 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AT  THE  DANCING-CLASS. 

%  » 

It’s  funny  to  think  what  came  of  our  going  to  that 
Qrst  dancing-class.  If  Anne  hadn't  run  down  to  the 
pantry,  the  note  wouldn't  have  been  found — perhaps 
not  for  months,  if  ever.  And  though  Mrs.  Liddell 
would  have  written  again  the  next  week  most  likely,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  in  time  for  us  to  go  to  the  first 
class,  and  everything  would  have  come  different. 

We  did  go — all  five  of  us.  Father  was  quite  willing 
for  Maud  to  come  too.  I  think  he  would  have  said 
yes  to  anything  mother  asked  just  then,  he  was  so  sorry 
for  her  ;  and  he  was  beginning  himself,  as  the  days 
went  on,  to  feel  less  hopeful  about  the  diamand  orna¬ 
ment  being  found.  And  you  see  mums  couldn’t  put  it 
off  her  mind,  as  she  kept  telling  Anne  she  should  do, 
for  it  was  quite  dreadful  to  her  to  think  of  grandfather’s 

r  ^ 

having  to  hear  about  it.  She  was  so  really  sorry  for 
him  to  be  vexed,  for  she  had  thought  it  so  kind  of  him 
to  lend  it  to  her. 

There  were  several  children  we  knew  at  the  dancing- 
class.  Some,  like  the  little  Liddells  themselves,  that 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


129 


we  hadn't  seen  for  a  good  long  while,  as  they  always 
stayed  in  the  country  till  after  Christmas,  and  some 
that  we  didn't  know  as  friends,  only  just  at  ;he  dancing, 
you  see. 

It  was  rather  fun.  We  always  found  time  tor  a  good 
deal  of  talking  and  laughing  between  the  exercises  and 
the  dances,  for  they  took  us*  in  turns — the  little  ones, 
like  Serena  and  Maud,  who  were  just  beginning,  and 
the  older  ones  who  could  dance  pretty  well,  and  one 
or  two  dances  at  the  end  for  the  biggest  of  all  or  the 
furthest  on  ones.  Anne  and  Hebe  were  among  these, 
but  Hebe  danced  much  better  than  Anne.  Most  of 
the  Exercises  and  the  marching  we  did  all  together. 
And  the  mammas  or  governeses  sat  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room  from  all  of  us. 

There  were  some  children  there  called  Barry  that  we 

* 

didn't  know  except  meeting  them  there.  But  I  was 

glad  to  see  them  again,  because  two  of  them  were 

boys,  one  a  little  O-d^r  and  the  other  a  little  younger 

than  me.  And  they  had  a  sister  who  was  a  twin  to 

the  younger  *one.  They  were  nice  children,  and  I 

* 

liked  talking  to  them,  and  the  girl — her  name  was 
Flossy — was  nLe  to  dance  with.  I  could  manage 
much  better  with  hex  than  with  our  girls  somehow. 

They  put  me  to  dance  the  polka  with  Flossy.  She’s 
not  at  all  a  shy  girl,  and  I'm  not  shy  either,  so  we 
talked  a  good  deal  between  times,  and  after  the  polka 

was  done  we  sat  down  beside  Anne  and  Hebe,  and  I 

9 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


130  . 

0  K 

Went  on  talking.  I  was  telling  Flossy  about  losing  ctw, 

• 

diamond  thing,  and  she  was  so  interested.*  It  wasn't 
a  secret,  you  see.  Father  said  the  more  we  told  it  the 
better;  there  was  no  saying  how  it*might  be  traced 
through  talking  about  it. 

Only  I  was  sorry  for  Anne.  I  had  rather  forgotten 
about  her  when  I  begun  about  it  to  Flossy,  and  1 

hadn't  told|about  Anne's  haying  meddled  with  the  pin  ; 

4  t  * 

and  when  Flossy  went  on  talking,  I  felt  as  if  Anne 

« 

w&uld  think  me  unkind. 

w 

X-  But  Anne's  not  like  that.  She  only  sat  looking  very 
grave,  and  when  I  had  answered  Flossy's  questions, 
she  just  said —  . 

“Isn't  it  dreadful  to  have  lost  it  ?  I'd  give  anything, 
I'd  almost  give  myself,  to  find  it. " 

That's  the  queer  sort  of  way  Anne  talks  sometimes 
when  she’s  very  tremendously  in  earnest 
Flossy  looked  rather  surprised. 

“What  a  funny  girl  you  are,"  she  said.  “I  don't 
think  your  mother  would  agree  to  give  you ,  even  to 
get  back  her  brooch  !  But,  do  you  know,  there’s 
something  running  in  my  head  about  losings  and 
findings  that  I've  been  hearing.  What  can  it  be? 
Oh  yes ;  it  was  some  of  our  cousins  yesterday — 
Ludo,"  and  she  called  her  brother,  the  twin  one, — 
“Ludo,  do  you  remember  what  the  little  Nearns  were 
telling  us,  about  something  they'd  found  ?  ” 

“It  wasn’t  they  that  found  it  It  was  lying  or. 


THE  GIBLS  AND  1. 


,  131 


their  doorstep  the  day  of  the  Drawing-room  ;  they’d 
had  a  arid  it  must  have  dropped  off  some  lady’s 

dress.  But  their  mother  had  sent  to  all  the  ladies 
that  had  been  there,  and  it  wasn’t  theirs.” 

Anne  was  listening  so  eagerly  that  her  eyes  almost 
looked  as  if  they  were  going  to  jump  out  of  her  head. 

“  What  is  it  like— the  brooch,  I  mean — didn’t  you 
say  it  was  a  brooch  ?  ”  she  asked  in  a  p'antfng  sort  of 
voice. 

Ludovic  Barry  stared  at  her.  * 

“  It’s  because  they’ve ‘lost  one,”  said  Flossy  quickly*^ 
“at  least  their  mother  has,  and  they  would  give  any¬ 
thing  to  find  it.  It’s  a — I  forget  the  word— a  family 
treasure,  you  know.” 

“  An  heirloom,”  I  said.  “  Yes,  that’s  the  worst  of 

■*  » 

it.  But,  Anne,  don’t  look  so  wild  about  it,”  I  went 
on,  laughingly.  „  “  What  is  the  brooch  like,  that  your 

cousins  have  found?  Is  it  diamonds?”  I  went  on  to 

* 

the  Barrys. 

•  “  I  think  so,”  said  Ludo.  “  It’s  some  kind  of  jewels. 
But  the  Nearns  are  quite  small  children  ;  they  wouldn’t 
know,  and  I  don’t  suppose  they’ve  seen  it.  They’d 
only  heard  their  mother  and  the  servants  talking  about 
it.  We  can  easily  find  out,  though.  I’ll  run  round 
there — they  live  in  our  Square — when  we  go  home.  ” 
“No,  Ludo,  I’m  afraid  you  can’t,  for  mamma  heard 
.  this  morning  that - ” 

At  that  very  moment  we  were  interrupted  by  another 


132f 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


dance  beginning.  And  when  it  was  over  it  was  time 
for  us  all  to  go.  Flossy  Barry  didn't  finish  her  sen¬ 
tence.  I  saw  her  saying  something  to  her  brother, 
and  then  she  came  up  to  us. 

“I'll  find  out  about  the  found  brooch/’  she  said. 
“I  won't  forget.  And  if  it's  the  least  likely  to  be 
yours,  I'll  ask  mamma  to  write  to  your  mamma. 
That'll  be  the  best.  ” 

“  Thank  you,"  I  said.  She  was  a  nice,  kind  little 
girl,  and  I  was  sure  she  wouldn’t  forget.  But  Anne 
looked  disappointed. 

“I  don't  see  why  she  tried  to  stop  her  brother  going 
about  it  at  once,"  she  said. 

“  Perhaps  there  was  some  reason,"  I  said.  “And 
Anne,  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  say  anything  about 
it  to  mums.  Raising  her  hopes,  you  know,  very 
likely  for  nothing,  for  it's  such  a  chance  that  it’s  our 
brooch — ours  has  been  advertised  so,  these  people 
would  have  seen  the  notices." 

Anne  did  not  answer. 

Flossy  had  a  reason,  and  a  good  one,  for  what  she 

« 

said  to  her  brother.  But  she  had  been  told  not  to 
speak  of  what  her  mother  had  heard,  as  Mrs.  Barry 
said  it  was  not  certain.  The  “it"  was  that  these 
little  cousins  of  theirs  had  got  the  whooping-cough, 
or  rather  Lady  Nearn,  their  mother,  was  afraid  they 
had,  and  so  she  had  told  the  Barrys  they  mustn’t 
come  to  the  house. 


TEE  GIBLS  AND  1. 


133 


Of  course  we  only  heard  all  that  afterwards. 

We  walked  home  from  the  dancing  with  Miss  Stir- 
ling.  She  came  with  us  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
mother,  and  now  and  then  only  nurse.  For  as  the 
class  was  on-  Saturday  afternoon,  it  wouldn't  have 
done  for  Miss  Stirling  always  to  take  us,  as  it  was  giv¬ 
ing  up  part  of  her  holiday.  That  first  day  mother  was 
busy  or  engaged,  otherwise  she  would  have  come 
herself. 

It  was  getting  dusk  already  as  we  went  home ;  it 
was  a  dull  afternoon,  looking  as  if  if  was  going  to 
rain. 

“Ido  hope  it's  not  going  to  be  wet  to-morrow, ” 
said  Hebe.  “I  like  it  to  be  fine  on  Sunday.” 

i 

Anne  started  at  this.  She  had  been  walking  very 
silently,  scarcely  talking  at  all. 

“Is  to-morrow  Sunday?”  she  said.  “I’d  quite 
forgotten.  Oh,  I  do  wish  it  wasn't.  There's  no  post 
on  Sunday,  you  know,  Jack.” 

She  was  next  me,  and  I  don't  think  any  one  else 
heard  what  she  said. 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?  ''  I  said.  “  There's  never  any 
post  on  Sunday  in  London.  What  does  it  matter?  ” 

“About  the  brooch,  of  course,”  she  answered 
“You  see,  if  Flossy  tells  her  mother  what  ’ we  said, 
and  they  send  to  find  out,  perhaps  Mrs.  Barry  would 
write  to  mums  to-night ;  and  if  it  wasn't  Sunday,  the 
letter  would  come  to-morrow  morning.” 


£34  the  GIRLS  AND  I. 

I  felt  quite  provoked  with  her. 

“Anne,”  I  said,  and  I  daresay  I  spoke  rather  crossly, 
“  you’re  really  silly.  Its  just  as  unlikely  as  it  can  be 
that  it's  mums’  thing,  and  you’d  much  better  put  out  of 
your  head  that  it  could  be.  You’ll  get  yourself  into  a 
fidget,  and  then  mums  will  think  there’s  something 
new  the  matter,  and- - ” 

“I’m  not  going  to  tell  her  anything  about  it,  I’ve 
said  so  already,”  interrupted  Anne,  rather  crossly  too. 
“I'm  always  being  told  to  put  things  out  of  my  head 
now  ;  it  would  have  been  better  if  they  hadn’t  been 
so  much  put  in  my  head.  I  wouldn’t  have  been  half 
so  miserable  all  this  time  if  you  hadn’t  all  gone  on  so 
about  it’s  being  my  fault  that  the  horrid  thing  was 
lost,  ”  and  she  gave  a  little  sob,  half  of  anger,  half  of 
unhappiness. 

I  was  very  sorry  for  her,  and  I  was  vexed  with 
myself  for  having  begun  about  it  at  the  dancing-class 
just  when  Anne  might  have  forgotten  it  a  little. 

“  If — just  supposing  Mrs.  Barry  thought  it  was  it, 
she’d  very  likely  send  a  note  round  to  say  ;  Rodney 
Square  is  quite  near  us,”  said  Hebe,  who  always 
thought  of  something  cheering  to  say. 

“ Rodney  Square,”  Anne  repeated,  “yes,  that’s  close 
to  here.  ” 

For  by  this  time  we  were  almost  at  our  own  house. 

Miss  Stirling  said  good-bye  to  us  as  soon  as  the 
door  was  opened,  and  we  all  five  went  in  together. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


135 


Mother  was  out  ;  we  knew  she  was,  but  yet  it 
seemed  rather  dull  to  be  told  she  hadn’t  come  in.  I 
always  think  it’s  dreadfully  dull  to  come  home  and 
find  one’s  mother  out. 

I  didn’t  go  upstairs.  I  had  some  lessons  to  finish, 
though  it  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  so  had  Hebe, 
because  you  see  we’d  been  longer  at  the  dancing  than 
if  we’d  just  gone  a  walk.  So  we  two  went  straight 
into  the  schoolroom,  and  Hebe  took  off  her  hat  and 
jacket  and  put  them  down  on  a  chair.  The  other 
three  went  on  upstairs,  and  we  didn’t  think  any  more 
about  them. 

What  happened  when  they  got  up  to  the  nursery  we 
heard  afterwards.  Nurse  was  not  there,  and  the  room 
was  rather  dark. 

“Why  isn’t  the  gas  lighted?”  said  Maud.  “It 
looks  so  dull,”  and  she  ran  out  of  the  room  and  down 
the  passage  to  nurse’s  own  room,  calling  out,  “Nurse, 
nurse,  where  are  you  ?  We’ve  come  in.” 

Maud  was  very  fond  of  nurse  and  of  course  being 
the  youngest  she  was  nurse’s  pet.  She’s  married  now 
— our  old  nurse,  I  mean.  She  left  us  last  Christmas,  and 
we’ve  got  a  schoolroom-maid  instead,  who  doesn’t  pet 
Maud  at  all,  of  course,  but  I  don’t  think  Maud  minds. 

“  Nurse,  where  are  you?  ”  she  called  out. 

Nurse  was  in  her  room  ;  she  had  a  fire,  and  she  was 
froning  some  things. 

“Come  in  here,  dearie,”  she  answered.  “I  didn’t 


136  the  GIRLS  AND  I. 

think  it  was  so  late.  I'll  have  done  in  a  moment,  and 
then  I'll  light  the  gas  and  see  about  tea.” 

So  Maud  went  in  to  nurse’s  room  and  began  telling 
her  about  the  dancing.  And  thus  Anne  and  Serena 
were  left  by  themselves  in  the  half-dark  nursery. 

Anne  stood  staring  in  the  fire  for  a  minute  without 
speaking.  All  this,  you  understand,  they  told  us  after¬ 
wards. 

“  Won't  you  come  and  take  your  things  off,  Anne  ?  ” 
said  Serry. 

But,  instead  of  answering,  Anne  asked  her  another 
question. 

Do  you  know  the  number  of  the  Barrys’  house  in 
Rodney  Square  ?  ”  it  was. 

“  No,”  said  Serena.  “  But  I  know  the  house.  It  is 
a  corner  one,  and  it  has  blue  and  white  flower-boxes. 
What  do  you  want  to  know  about  it  for?” 

Anne  looked  round — no,  there  was  no  sign  of  nurse  ; 
she  and  Serena  were  alone. 

“  Serry, ”  she  said  in  a  whisper,  “I've  thought  of 
something,”  and  then  she  went  on  to  tell  Serry  what 
it  was. 

That's  all  I'll  tell  just  now  ;  the  rest  will  come  soon. 
Till  you  try,  you’ve  no  idea  how  difficult  it  is  to  tell  a 
story — or  even  not  a  regular  story,  just  an  account  of 
simple  things  that  really  happened — at  all  properly. 
The  bits  of  it  get  so  mixed.  It's  like  a  tangle  of  thread 
—the  ends  you  don't  want  keep  coming  up  the  wrong 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


137 


way,  and  putting  themselves  in  front  of  the  others.  I 
must  just  go  on  as  well  as  I  can,  and  put  down  the 
things  as  straight  as  they’ll  come. 

Well,  Hebe  and  I  had  about  finished  the  lessons  we 
wanted  to  get  done.  It  was  partly  that  Monday  was 
going  to  be  mother’s  birthday,  and  we  wanted  to  have 
a  clear  evening.  Hebe  and  I  always  agree  about  things 
like  that ;  we  like  to  look  forward  and  arrange  comfort- 
ably.  Well,  we  had  just  about  finished,  and  I  was  get¬ 
ting  up  to  begin  putting  away  the  books,  when  the  door 
opened  and  nurse  came  in  looking  just  the  least  little 
bit  vexed.  For  she  is  good-natured. 

She  glanced  round  the  room  before  she  spoke,  as  if 
she  was  looking  for  some  one  not  there. 

“  The  child’s  right,”  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to  her¬ 
self.  “  I  must  say  she  generally  is.  Master  Jack,”  she 
went  on,  “  and  Miss  Hebe,  my  dears,  tea’s  ready.  But 
where  are  Miss  Warwick  and  Miss  Serry  ?  ” 

We  stared. 

“  Anne  and  Serry,”  I  said.  “  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know. 
Upstairs,  I  suppose.  They  went  straight  up  with 
Maudie  when  we  came  in,  ever  so  long  ago.” 

“  But  indeed  they’re  not  upstairs,”  said  nurse,  her 
face  growing  very  uneasy.  “  That’s  what  Miss  Maud 
said  too.  She  saw  them  go  into  the  nursery  when  she 
ran  along  to  my  room.  But  they  are  not  there,  nor  in 
any  of  the  bedrooms ;  I’ve  looked  everywhere,  and 
Called  too.  ” 


188 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


“  They  may  be  reading  in  the  little  drawing-room,  ’* 
I  said,  and  both  Hebe  and  I  jumped  up  to  go  and  help 
nurse  in  her  search.  She  had  not  thought  of  the  draw¬ 
ing-room,  knowing  mother  had  not  come  in. 

“  Have  they  taken  off  their  hats  and  jackets?  ”  asked 
Hebe. 

Nurse  shook  her  head. 

“  I've  not  seen  them  anywhere  about,  and  Miss  Anne 
and  Miss  Serry  are  not  young  ladies  that  ever  think  of 
putting  away  their  out-door  things  as  you  do  some 
times,  Miss  Hebe.” 

Hebe  hung  back  a  little.  We  were  following  nurse 
upstairs. 

4 4  Jack,”  she  whispered,  “do  you  know,  while  you 
and  I  were  busy  in  the  school-room,  I  am  sure  I  heard 
the  front  door  shut.  I  hadn't  heard  the  bell  ring,  and 
I  wondered  for  a  moment  why  Alfred  was  opening 
when  no  one  had  rung.  But,  you  see,  it  may  have 
been  some  one  going  out.  Jack,  do  you  think  Anne 
and  Serry  can  have  gone  out  by  themselves  ?  ” 

“They'd  never  do  such  a  thing,”  I  said.  “Why, 
it's  almost  quite  dark,  and  they  know  mother  would  be 
really  very  angry  if  they  did  !  ” 

But  Hebe  did  not  seem  satisfied. 

“  The  door  was  shut  very  softly,”  she  said. 

We  were  at  the  drawing-room  by  this  time.  There 
was  no  light  in  the  two  big  rooms,  but  there  were  two 

i 

lamps  in  the  little  one  where  mums  sits  when  she's 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


139 


alooie.  No  sign  of  Anne  or  Serena,  however.  And  no 
sign  of  them  in  the  other  rooms  either.  Alfred  brought 
up  a  candle,  and  we  called  to  them  to  come  out  if  they 
were  hiding,  and  said  we  were  really  frightened  ;  but 
there  was  no  answer. 

“  They  can't  be  there,"  said  nurse  ;  “  Miss  Anne  has 
far  too  kind  a  heart  not  to  come  out,  even  if  they  had 
begun  by  playing  a  trick  on  me.  Come  up  to  the  nur¬ 
sery,  my  dears,  and  have  your  tea.  I’ 11  go  down  and 
speak  to  Mr.  Barstow.  Maybe  he  can  throw  some 
light  on  it.  ” 

“  They  must  have  gone  out,  nurse,"  I  said  boldly. 
There  was  no  use  not  telling  her  all  we  knew. 

She  turned  upon  me  quite  sharply. 

“Gone  out ,  Master  Jack?  Nonsense,  Miss  Anne 
is  far  too  good  and  obedient  to  do  such  a  wild  thing, 
knowing  how  it  would  displease  your  dear  mamma  too." 

But  Maud,  whom  we  met  on  the  staircase,  suddenly 
thought  of  an  explanation  of  the  mystery. 

“  Come  in  here,"  she  said,  pulling  us  all  three  into 
the  nursery  and  closing  the  door.  “  Listen,  I  do  believe 
I  know  where  they’ve  gone.  It’s  about  the  diamond 

N.  . 

brooch.  I  believe  Anne's  gone  to  those  children's 
house  where  they’ve  found  a  brooch  that  might  be  it" 

Hebe  and  I  jumped. 

“  I  believe  you’re  right,  Maud,"  I  said. 

**  How  stupid  of  us  not  to  have  thought  of  it  1 "  ex¬ 
claimed  Hebe. 


4 


140 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


But  nurse,  of  cou;*-e,  only  stared. 

Then  we  explained  to  her  what  Maud  meant.  Even 
then  she  could  scarcely  believe  Anne  had  really  done 
such  a  thing. 

44  It  would  have  been  so  much  better  to  wait  till 
your  mamma  came  in,”  she  said.  4 ‘  Alfred  could  have 
been  sent  with  a  note  in  a  minute.  ” 

44  Anne  didn’t  want  mother  to  know  about  it.  At 
l£ast,  I  said  to  her  it  would  be  a  pity  to  raise  mothers 
hopes,  and  it  was  all  nicely  settled  that  Flossy  Barry 
was  to  find  out  and  ask  her  mother  to  write  if  it  seemed 
possible  it  was  our  diamond  thing,”  I  said.  44  It  is  aU 
Anne’s  impatience,  and  you  see,  nurse,  she  knew  she 
shouldn’t  have  gone  alone  with  Serry,  or  she  wouldn’t 
have  crept  out  that  way  without  telling  any  one.  ” 

44  I  don’t  know  how  they  can  have  gone  to  those* 
people’s  house,”  said  Hebe.  44  I’m  not  even  sure  o t 
the  name,  though  I  heard  it,  and  I’ve  a  better  memory 
than  Anne.  I  only  know  it’s  in  Rodney  Square.” 

44  They’ll  have  gone  to  Flossy  Barry’s  to  ask  for  the 
Tedress,”  said  Maud. 

We  couldn’t  help  smiling ;  it  is  so  funny  when  Maud 
says  words  wrong,  for  she  is  so  wonderfully  clever  and 
sensible. 

44  Yes,”  exclaimed  Hebe.  44 I’m  sure  they’ll  have 
done  that.  Maud  always  thinks  of  the  right  thing.  ” 

But  what  were  we  to  do. 

Every  moment  we  hoped  to  hear  the  front-door  bell 


i 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


14\ 


ring,  followed  by  our  sisters'  pattering  steps  running 
upstairs.  We  didn't  seem  to  care  much  about  the  dia¬ 
mond  brooch.  Even  if  I  had  heard  Anne’s  voice  call¬ 
ing  out,  "It  is  it.  We’ve  got  it!”  I  think  my  first 
words  would  have  been,  "Oh,  Anne,  how  could  you 
go  out  and  frighten  us  so  ?  ” 

And  of  course,  even  if  it  had  been  the  brooch,  they 
would  never  have  given  it  to  two  children  to  bring 
back.  Mums  would  have  had  to  vow  it  was  hers,  and 
all  sorts  of  fuss,  I  daresay. 

Nurse  poured  out  our  three  cups  of  tea.  She  was 
very  sensible  ;  I  think  she  wanted  to  stop  us  getting 
too  excited,  though  she  told  me  afterwards  she  had 
been  as  frightened  as  frightened  :  it  had  been  all  she 
could  do  to  keep  quiet  and  not  go  off  just  as  she  was 
to  look  for  them. 

"I’ll  just  go  down  and  have  a  word  with  Mr. 
Barstow,”  she  said.  "  I  daresay  he’ll  send  round  to 
Mrs.  Barry’s  to  see  if  the  young  ladies  have  been  there, 
as  Miss  Maudie  says,  dear  child.  We’ll  find  Mrs. 
Barry’s  number  in  the  red  book.  And  you  don’t  know 
the  other  family's  name  ?  ” 

"It’s  Lady  something,”  said  Hebe.  "Not  Mrs., 

and  not  Lady  Mary,  or  Lady  Catharine,  but  Lady - 

the  name  straight  off.” 

"That  won’t  help  so  very  much,  I’m  afraid,”  said 
nurse.  "Not  in  Rodney  Square.  But  they’ll  be  sure 
to  know  the  name  at  Mrs.  Barry’s.  I  shouldn’t  wonder 


'A 


142  THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 

t  }  S 

If  Mr.  Barstow  steps  round  himself.  Now  go  on  with 
your  tea,  my  dears,  while  I  go  downstairs  for  a  minute. 
Of  course  there's  nothing  at  all  to  be  really  frightened 
about.  ” 

We  pretended  to  go  on  with  our  tea,  but  we  were 
very  unhappy. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


143 


■N 


CHAPTER  V. 

RODNEY  SQUARE. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  till  nurse  came  back  again. 
We  had  finished  our  tea — it  was  really  rather  a  pre¬ 
tence  one,  as  I  said — when  we  thought  we  heard  her 
coming  upstairs,  and  ran  out  to  meet  her. 

It  was  her  :  she  was  comiug  up  the  big  front  stair¬ 
case,  for  she  still,  as  she  told  me  afterwards,  had  a 
half-silly  idea  that  perhaps  the  two  girls  were  still 
hiding  somewhere  in  the  drawing-rooms,  and  might 
be  goingto  jump  out  to  surprise  her.  When  we  looked 
over  the  balusters  and  saw  it  was  nurse,  we  ran  down 
to  the  first  landing  towards  her. 

“Mr.  Barstow  has  gone  himself,  ”  she  said.  “We’ve 
been  looking  out  Rodney  Square  in  the  red  book ;  we 
found  Mr.  Barry's — it’s  No.  37 — fast  enough,  but  we 
can’t  say  which  is  the  other  lady’s,  as  you’ve  no  idea 
of  the  name.  There’s  ever  so  many  might  do  for  it  ; 
the  very  next  door  is  a  Sir  Herbert  Mortimer’s.” 

“  No,  it  was  a  short  name,  I’m  sure  of  that.  Aren’t 
you,  Hebe?”  I  said. 

“Now,  my  dears,  why  didn't  you  say  so  before?” 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


144 

said  nurse.  “A  short  name  would  have  been  some 
guide.  ” 

“  But  it  was  far  the  best  to  go  straight  to  the  Barrys,  ” 
said  Maud,  which  was  certainly  quite  true. 

Just  then  the  front  bell  rang. 

“  Oh,”  said  nurse,  “  if  only  it  could  be  the  young 
ladies  before  your  mamma  comes  in  !  ” 

But  no,  it  was  not  Anne  and  Serena.  It  was  mums 
herself. 

She  seemed  to  know  by  instinct  that  there  was  some¬ 
thing  wrong.  She  glanced  up  and  saw  our  heads  all 
looking  over  the  railing. 

“What  is  it?”  she  said.  “Are  you  all  there, 
dears  ?  ” 

Nurse  and  we  three  looked  at  each  other.  It  was  no 
use  hiding  it.  So  we  went  on  downstairs  to  the  hall. 

“It’s  nothing  really  wrong,  mums,  darling,”  I  said. 
“It's  only - ,”  but  nurse  interrupted  me. 

“It’s  Miss  Warwick  and  Miss  Serena,  ma’am,  haven't 
come  in  yet,”  she  said.  “We  hoped  it  was  them  when 
the  bell  rang.  ” 

Mother  looked  bewildered. 

“Anne  and  Serry,”  she  said.  “What  do  you  mean  ? 
Didn’t  they  go  to  the  dancing  with  the  rest  of  you?  ” 

“  Yes,  of  course;  they’ve  been  in  since  then,”  said 
Hebe.  “Miss  Stirling  brought  us  all  to  the  door. 
But  they’ve  gone  out  again,  we're  afraid ;  ”  and  seeing 
mother  looking  more  and  more  puzzled,  she  turned  to 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I 


145 


Maud.  “You  tell  mums,  Maud,"  she  said.  “You 
know  most." 

Mother  sat  down  on  a  chair  in  the  hall.  She  seemed 
quite  shaky  and  frightened.  Nurse  ran  off  to  get  a 
glass  of  water,  and  Maud  told  her  all  we  knew  or 
guessed  in  her  quiet  little  particular  way.  She  told  all 
— about  the  ornament  that  had  been  found,  and  every¬ 
thing — it  was  no  use  hiding  anything. 

“Oh,”  said  poor  mums  at  the  end,  “  I  do  wish  gran 
had  never  thought  of  lending  me  his  diamonds,”  and 

4 

she  gave  a  great  sigh.  “  But  after  all,”  she  went  On, 
“I  don’t  think  we  need  be  very  frightened,  though  it 
was  exceedingly,  really  very  wrong  of  Anne  to  go, 
whatever  her  motive  was.  I  only  hope  the  Barrys 
sent  some  one  with  them  to  these  cousins  of  theirs  ; 
they  must  have  thought  it  extraordinary  for  two  little 
girls  to  be  out  alone  so  late.” 

Still,  on  the  whole,  she  did  not  seem  so  very  fright¬ 
ened  now.  She  drank  the  water  nurse  brought,  and 
went  into  the  library,  where  the  lamp  was  lit,  and  the 
fire  burning  cheerfully. 

“Barstow  will  be  back  immediately,  no  doubt?  ”  she 
said  to  nurse. 

“  He’ll  be  as  quick  as  he  can,  I'm  sure,”  said  nurse. 
“But  perhaps — if  he  has  gone  on  to  the  other  house — 
it  may  be  some  little  time.” 

At  that  moment,  however,  we  heard  the  area  bell 

ring,  and  almost  immediately  Barstow  appeared.  His 
io 


146 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


face  was  rather  red,  and  he  seemed  out  of  breath — poor 
Barstow  is  getting  pretty  fat. 

“Are  they  back?”  he  exclaimed.  Then  seeing 
mother,  “  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  I  just  ran  in  to 
see  if  the  young  ladies  were  returned,  for  they've  not 
been  at  Mrs.  Barry’s — no  one  there  has  heard  anything 
of  them.  I  got  the  address  of  the  other  lady’s — Lady 
Neam's - ” 

“Oh  yes,”  Hebe  and  I  interrupted;  “that's  the 
name.” 

- “Just  in  case,”  Barstow  continued,  “they  hadn't 

come  in.  But  I  really  begin  to  think  we're  on  the 
wrong  tack.  Perhaps  Miss  Anne  has  only  gone  to 
some  shop,  and  it  seemed  making  such  a  hue  and  cry 
to  go  round  to  another  house,  and  not  of  our  own 
acquaintances,  you  see,  ma'am,”  he  went  on,  “  and 
asking  for  the  young  ladies.  I  quite  hoped  to  find 
they  were  home.  ” 

Mother  considered.  She  kept  her  presence  of  mind, 
but  I  could  see  she  was  growing  really  frightened. 

“Could  they  have  gone  to  get  cakes  for  tea,  for  a 
surprise,”  she  said  suddenly,  “  and  have  lost  their  way 

coming  back?  There's  that  German  shop  in - Street, 

where  there  are  such  nice  cakes.” 

It  was  possible,  but  after  all - Street  was  not  very 

far  off,  and  Anne  had  sense  enough  to  ask  the  way. 
And  as  the  minutes  went  on,  and  no  ring  came  to  the 
bell,  we  all  looked  at  each  other  in  increasing  trouble. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


147 


“You’d  better  go  to  Lady  Nearn’s,  Barstow,”  said 
mums  at  last,  ‘  ‘  though  it  seems  such  a  mere  chance. 
Ho  w  could  they  have  known  what  house  it  was, 
scarcely  having  heard  the  name,  and  certainly  not 
having  been  told  the  number!  ” 

That  was  what  we  all  thought. 

But  Barstow  was  off — like  a  shot,  I  was  going  to 
say,  but  it  wouldn’t  be  a  very  good  description, — as 
like  a  shot  as  a  stout  elderly  butler  could  be,  we’ll  say. 

And  poor  mums  began  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  squeezing  her  hands  together  in  a  way  she  has 
when  she’s  awfully  worried. 

“If  only  Alan  were  at  home,”  I  heard  her  say. 
“Oh  dear !  is  it  a  punishment  to  me  for  having  made 
too  much  of  the  loss  of  that  unlucky  brooch?  It 
would  seem  less,  far  less  than  nothing,  in  comparison 
with  any  harm  to  the  children.  Oh,  if  only  Anne 
were  less  thoughtless  and  impulsive,  what  a  comfort 
it  would  be  !  ” 

And  I  must  say,  when  I  saw  the  poor,  dear  little 
thing — I  can’t  help  calling  mums  a  little  thing  some¬ 
times,  though  of  course  she’s  twice  as  tall  as  I  am, 
but  she’s  so  sweet  and  soft,  and  seems  to  need  to  be 
taken  care  of — when  I  saw  her,  I  say,  so  dreadfully 
upset,  it  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  feel  very  angry  with 
Anne  ;  and  yet,  you  understand,  till  I  could  see  with 
my  own  eyes  that  she  and  Serry  were  all  right,  I  didn’t 
dare  to  feel  angry. 


148 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


And  all  sorts  of  things  began  to  come  into  my  head, 
and  I  am  sure  they  were  in  mother  s  already.  The  one 
that  seemed  the  plainest  was  that  they  had  been  run 
©ver :  the  streets  are  not  at  all  well  lighted  about 
where  we  live  ;  there  are  no  shops,  and  the  London 
gas  is  horribly  dull.  Still,  it  wasn't  likely  that  they’d 
both  been  run  over  and  hurt  so  badly  that  they  couldn’t 
speak  to  tell  who  they  were  or  where  they  lived 
There  was  some  comfort  in  that.  But — I  looked  at 
the  library  clock,  which  always  keeps  good  time  : 
father  sees  to  it  himself — it  was  getting  on  for  two 
hours  since  they  had  been  out !  Where  could  they  be  ? 

Suddenly  there  came  a  ring  at  the  bell — rather  a  sharp 
ring — and  as  Alfred  flew  to  open  the  door,  we  heard 
the  sort  of  little  bustle  that  there  always  is  if  it  is  a  car¬ 
riage  or  cab  arriving — tiny  clickings  of  the  harness  and 
the  coachman’s  voice.  Yes,  it  was  a  carriage.  We  ran 
out  into  the  hall  and  saw  a  footman  in  a  buff  greatcoat 
standing  on  the  steps,  up  which  came  two  little  dark 
figures,  who  ran  in  past  him.  Then  the  door  was  shut, 
the  carriage  drove  off,  and  we  saw  that  it  was  Anne 
and  Serry. 

“Oh,  children!  oh,  Anne!”  cried  mother.  “Where 
have  you  been  ?  ” 

And  we  all  called  out  in  different  voice,  “  Oh ,  Anne  l 
oh ,  Serry  !  " 

But  before  she  said  anything  else  Anne  rushed  up  to 

mother. 


THE  GIELS  AND  I. 


149 


“Oh,  mum,  it  wasn't  it  after  all.  It  was  a  star 
with  a  pearl  in  the  middle.  I  was  so  disappointed  !  ” 

That  shows  how  silly  Anne  is.  She  had  planned, 
you  know,  to  say  nothing  about  it  to  mother,  and  then 
she  bursts  out  as  if  mums  had  sent  her  to  find  out  about 

4  « 

it !  Indeed,  for  that  matter,  it  was  only  thanks  to 
clever  little  Maud  that  any  of  us  knew  where  they  had 
been,  or  had  any  idea  rather.  For  as  to  knowing ,  we 
had  not  known  ;  we  had  only  guessed. 

“Then  you  were  there,  after  all/'  said  Maud.  “  I 
thought  so.  ” 

“But  how  did  you  get  the  address  without  going  to 
the  Barrys  for  it?”  said  Hebe.  “We  sent  there. 
Barstow  went  himself.  Oh,  Anne,  you  have  frightened 
us  so,  especially  poor  darling  mums  1  ” 

Then  at  last  Anne  and  Serry  began  to  look  rather 
ashamed  of  themselves.  Mother,  after  the  first  ex¬ 
clamation,  had  not  spoken.  She  went  back  into  the 
library,  looking  whiter  than  before  almost,  and  I  felt 
too  disgusted  with  Anne's  thoughtlessness  io  ask  any 
questions.  Still,  I  was  very  curious  to  know  all  about 
it,  and  so  were  we  all. 

Anne  followed  mums  into  the  library — she  was 
really  frightened  by  this  time,  I  think. 

“Tell  me  all  about  it,”  said  mother. 

So  they  did — Anne  first,  of  course,  and  Serena 
putting  in  her  word  now  and  then.  It  was  just  as  we 
bad  thought  about  the  first  part  of  it  They  had  gone 


150 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


to  find  out  about  the  brooch.  Rodney  Square  wasn't 
far  off,  and  Anne  was  sure  she  knew  the  way  there, 
and  would  be  back  directly.  But  after  all,  it  wasn't 
so  easy  to  find  as  she  expected.  It  makes  a  great 
difference  when  it's  dark — the  turnings  are  so  like  each 
other,  especially  where  there  are  no  shops.  They  did 
get  to  Rodney  Square  at  last,  but  they  must  have  gone 
a  very  roundabout  way,  and  when  they  were  there# 
there  was  a  new  difficulty :  they  knew  the  Barrys* 
house  by  sight,  or  they  thought  they  did,  but  they 
didn't  know  the  number,  only  that  it  was  a  corner  one. 
They  came  to  one  corner,  one  that  looked  something 
like  it,  and  Anne  thought  they’d  better  try.  So  they  went 
up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell,  and  a  footman  opened 

“Does  Mrs.  Barry  live  here?"  asked  Anne. 

“No,"  he  said,  “  that's  not  our  name. "  But  he  must 
have  been  good-natured,  for  he  went  on  to  say  he'd 
get  the  red  book  if  they  liked  and  look  for  it. 

“Bury — was  that  the  name  ?  "  he  said  when  he  had 
got  the  book. 

“Barry  ”  Anne  was  just  going  to  say,  when  a  ne\V 
thought  struck  her.  It  was  no  good  going  to  two 
houses  when  she  might  get  the  information  she  wanted 
at  one.  “It  isn't  really  Mrs.  Barry's  house  I  need,” 
she  said.  “  I  was  only  going  to  ask  there  for  another 
address — Lady  Nem,  or  some  name  like  that." 

“Oh,"  said  the  man,  “Lady  Neam's  ! — that's  next 
door,  miss.  I  don't  need  to  look  it  up." 


1 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


151 


They  thanked  him  and  set  off  again,  thinking  they 
had  been  very  lucky,  though  /  thought  if  Anne  had 
remembered  the  name  as  close  as  that,  she  might  have 
looked  it  up  in  our  own  red  book  at  home  before  start¬ 
ing. 

They  rang  again  next  door,  and  again  a  footman 
opened ;  but  he  wasn't  so  good-natured  as  the  other, 
and  he  was  stupid  too. 

“Is  Lady  Nearn  at  home?  Can  I  see  her  ?  ”  asked 
Anne  quite  coolly.  Anne  is  as  cool  as  anything  when 
she's  full  of  some  idea.  Nothing  puts  her  out  or  fright¬ 
ens  her. 

It  was  rather  dark,  and  of  course  no  one  expects  little 
ladies  to  be  walking  about  alone  so  late.  So  it  wasn’t 
much  wonder  the  man  thought  they  were  errand  girls, 
or  beggars  of  some  kind  possibly. 

“  No,"  he  said,  “  my  lady’s  not  at  home  ;  and  if  she 
was  she  wouldn't  be  to  no  tiresome  children  like  you.” 
(We  made  Anne  and  Serry  tell  us  exactly  all  that  was 
said.)  “She  leaves  word  if  she's  expecting  any  of  her 
school  brats,  but  she's  said  nothing  this  time,  so  it's 
no  use  your  teasing. " 

If  l3d  been  Anne  I'd  have  been  in  a  fury,  but  Serry 
said  she  didn't  seem  to  mind.  / 

“Oh,  please, "  she  said,  “we're  not  school-children, 
and  we've  come  about  something  very  particular 
indeed.  Don't  you  think  Lady  Neam  will  be  in 
«oon  ? " 


152 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


That  was  Anne  all  over.  She'd  no  intention  of  giv* 
ing  up  now  she  had  got  so  far. 

I  suppose  the  footman  heard  by  her  voice  that  she 
wasn't  a  common  child. 

4 ‘Can't  you  leave  a  message?  "  he  said  rather  more 
civilly. 

4 4  No, "  said  Anne.  4  4  It's  something  I  must  see  Lady 
Nearn  herself  about." 

She  had  the  sense  not  to  speak  of  the  found  orna¬ 
ment  to  him.  Of  course  it  would  have  been  no  use, 
as  Lady  Nearn  wouldn't  have  left  it  with  a  servant. 

44  We're  friends  of — at  least  we  know  Mrs.  Barry’s 
children,"  Anne  went  on.  44  Can't  you  let  us  come  in 
and  wait,  if  Lady  Nearn  will  be  in  soon  ? " 

For  it  was  very  chilly  on  the  doorstep,  and  indeed 
both  Anne  and  Serry  were  very  tired  by  this  time — 
coming  straight  from  the  dancing,  and  losing  their  way 
to  Rodney  Square,  and  it  being  past  tea-time  and 
all. 

The  footman  seemed  to  consider. 

4  4  Step  inside,  "he  said  at  last ;  4  4  I'll  see  what — some¬ 
body — says."  They  didn't  catch  the  name. 

It  wasn't  nearly  such  a  grand  house  as  the  one  next 
door.  The  hall  was  quite  small,  and  there  was  no 
fireplace  in  it. 

44  You  can  take  a  seat,"  said  the  man,  and  he  went 
off.  44  Somebody"  must  have  taken  a  good  while  to 
find,  for  he  didn't  come  back  for  ever  so  long.  I  sup- 


THE  GIB  8  Xk  l VD  I.  153 

pose  once  he  saw  them  ii\  the  iight,  he  was  satisfied 
they  weren’t  beggars  or  anything  like  that. 

They  were  glad  to  sit  dowrv  and  it  felt  warm  in  the 
hall  compared  to  outside.  Thc/e  was  a  door  close  to 
where  they  were.  It  was  one  of  those  houses  that 
have  the  dining-room  at  the  back  and  the  library  to  the 
front,  you  know,  and  the  door  was  the  library  door. 

After  a  moment  it  opened,  very  slowly  and  softly, 
and  some  one  peeped  out ;  then  Anne  and  Serena 
heard  some  whispering,  and  the  door  opened  a  little 
wider,  and  two  faces  appeared.  It  was  two  children 
— a  boy  and  a  girl,  though  their  heads  looked  much 
the  same,  as  they  had  both  short,  dark,  curly  hair,  and 
they  both  wore  sailor  tops.  They  gradually  opened 
the  door  still  more  till  they  could  be  seen  quite  well. 
They  were  about  six  or  seven,  and  they  stood  smiling 
at  the  girls,  half  shy  and  half  pleased. 

“  Won’t  you  come  in  here  ?  ”  said  one  of  them.  “  It 
must  be  so  cold  out  there.  We’re  having  tea  in  here  all 
by  ourselves.  It’s  such  fun.  ” 

“We’re  to  stay  here  till  mamma  comes  home,”  said 
the  other.  “Wev’e  been  by  ourselves  all  day,  because 
Lily  and  Tom  are  ill — we  mustn’t  be  in  the  nursery  to 
disturb  them.  ” 

Anne  and  Serry  walked  in.  “They  didn’t  see  why 
they  shouldn’t,”  said  Serry,  and  these  dear  little  children 
were  so  kind  and  polite.  They  handed  them  the  cake 
and  bread-and-butter,  and  they  would  have  given  them 


154 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


tea,  only  they  hadn’t  cups  enough,  and  they  didn't 
seem  quite  sure  about  ringing  for  more. 

George,  the  footman,  was  rather  cross  sometimes, 
they  said.  But  it  wasn't  often  he  was  so  rude  as  to 
leave  any  one  in  the  cold  hall.  They’d  tell  mamma 
when  she  came  in. 

She  did  come  in  very  soon.  The  bell  rang,  and  the 
children  ran  to  the  door  to  peep  out,  and  when  Lady 
Nearn  hurried  in,  there  she  found  the  four  as  happy  as 
could  be — Anne  and  Serry  so  amused  by  the  children 
that  they  had  quite  forgotten  all  about  how  frightened 
nurse  and  all  of  us  would  be  getting ;  indeed,  they’d 
almost  forgotten  what  they  had  come  to  this  strange 
house  about  at  all. 

Lady  Nearn  did  look  astonished.  For  half  a  minute 
she  took  Serena  for  Flossy  Barry. 

“Flossy,”  she  said,  “I  wrote  to  your - ”  but 

then  she  stopped,  and  just  stared  in  surprise. 

¥ 

Anne  had  got  back  her  wits  by  then,  and  she  ex* 
plained  it  all — how  it  was  partly,  anyway,  her  fault 
about  the  brooch  being  lost,  and  how  pleased  she’d  be 
to  find  it,  and  all  about  what  Flossy  had  told  them, 
and  how  she  and  Serry  had  come  off  by  themselves, 
not  even  knowing  the  name,  or  the  number  of  the 
house. 

Lady  Nearn  was  very  kind,  but  I  don’t  think  she 
quite  took  in  that  it  was  really  naughty  of  them  to  have 
come  out  without  leave.  You  see,  Anne  hadn’t  got  to 


THE  GIRLS  AXD  L 


156 


think  it  naughty  herself,  yet.  She  fetched  the  brooch 
just  to  show  Anne — though,  indeed,  from  the  way 
Anne  spoke  of  it,  she  was  sure  it  wasn't  it,  and  oi 
course  it  wasn’t ! 

Anne  could  nearly  have  cried  with  disappointment. 

Then  it  did  strike  Lady  Nearn  to  ask  how  they  were 
going  home  again.  It  was  quite  dark  by  now.  She 
couldn't  send  a  servant  with  them,  for  the  house  was 
rather  upset — three  of  the  children  were  ill. 

Indeed,"  she  said,  “I  must  write  to  Mrs.  Warwick 
to  explain.  I  hope  no  harm  will  come  of  it,  as  you 
have  only  seen  the  twins,  who  are  quite  well,  so  far, 
and  separated  from  the  others." 

But  all  the  same  sne  seemed  anxious  to  get  them 
away,  and  she  suddenly  rang  the  bell  and  told  George 
— who  must  have  looked  rather  astonished  to  see  the 
‘‘school  brats  ”  such  friends  with  his  mistress — to  run 
round  to  the  stables  and  tell  the  coachman  to  call  at 
the  house  on  his  way  to  fetch  Lord  Nearn  from  some¬ 
where  or  other.  That  was  how  Anne  and  Serry  came 
# 

home  in  a  carriage. 

We  didn’t  hear  the  whole  ins  and  outs  of  the  story 
at  once,  but  we  made  the  girls  tell  it  us  over  after¬ 
wards. 

Just  now  Anne  could  hardly  get  through  with 

it ;  for  she  began  crying  when  she  understood  how 

« 

frightened  mums  had  been,  and  begging  her  to  forgive 
her. 


156 


THE  GIBLS  AND  I. 


Mums  did,  of  course — she  always  does.  And  then 
she  sent  us  upstairs  to  finish  our  tea.  But  as  we  left 
the  library  I  heard  her  say  to  herself — 

“I  wonder  what  Lady  Neam  can  be  going  to  write 
to  me  about.  ” 

Serena  was  quite  jolly,  and  as  hungry  as  anything. 

“All  is  well  that  ends  well,”  she  said,  tossing  her 
hair. 

Anne  turned  upon  her  pretty  sharply.  I  wasn’t 
sorry. 

“Serry,”  she  said,  “I  know  you’re  not  to  blame 
like  me,  for  I  made  you  come.  But  you  might  see 
now  how  wrong  it  was,  as  I  do.  And  ‘ends  well* 
indeed  !  Why,  we’ve  given  mums  and  all  of  them  a 
dreadful  fright,  and  we  haven’t  found  the  brooch.” 

And — but  I  must  tell  that  in  a  new  chapter.  No,  it 
wasn’t  “ends  well  ” yet,  by  a  long  way. 

“If  only  you’d  asked  me>  Anne,”  said  Miss  Maud 
Wisdom. 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


157 


’  CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW. 

I  was  alone  with  mums  in  her  room  the  next  mom- 

I 

ing  when  her  letters  were  brought  up.  The  poor  little 
thing  had  a  headache  and  was  very  tired,  and,  for 
once,  she  hadn't  got  up  to  breakfast.  She  had  not 
been  able  to  go  to  sleep  the  night  before — really  she 
had  had  a  lot  of  worries  lately — and  then  when  she 
did,  it  was  so  nearly  morning  that  she  slept  on  ever  so 
much  longer  than  usual.  For  she's  not  a  bit  lazy,  like 
some  mothers  I  know.  , 

When  she  does  have  breakfast  in  bed,  she  lets  me 
look  after  her.  It’s  awfully  jolly.  Father  is  sure  to 
say  as  he  goes  off,  “You'll  see  to  your  mother, 
Jack,/' 

The  girls  don't  mind.  A’  ne  would'nt  be  much  good 
at  anything  like  that — at  least,  she  wouldn't  have  been 
then ,  though  she's  ever  so  much  better  now  about  for¬ 
getting  things,  and  spilling  things,  and  seeming  as  if 
all  her  fingers  were  thumbs,  you  know.  Hebe  is  very 
handy,  and  she  always  was.  But  she  never  put  herself 
before  Anne,  and  so  we  got  in  the  way  of  me  being 


158 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


the  one  to  do  most  for  muins.  I  told  you  at  the  be¬ 
ginning — didn't  I  ? — that  some  people  might  think  me 
rather  a  girly-boy,  but  I  don’t  mind  one  scrap  of  an 
atom  if  they  do.  I  have  my  own  ideas.  I  know  the 
splendidest  cricketer  and  footballer  you  ever  saw  is  a 
fellow  whose  sister’s  a  cripple,  and  she  can’t  bear  any 
one  to  lift  her  but  him,  because  he’s  so  gentle.  And 
I’ve  seen  a  young  doctor  in  our  village  doing  up  a 
baby  that  was  burnt  nearly  to  death,  as  if  his  fingers 
were  fairy’s,  and  afterwards  I  heard  that  he’d  been 
the  bravest  of  the  brave  in  some  awful  battles  in 
Burmah,  or  somewhere  like  that.  Indeed,  he  got  so 
wounded  with  cutting  in  to  carry  out  the  men  as  they 
dropped — it  was  what  they  call  a  skirmish,  I  think,  not 
a  proper  battle  where  they  have  ambulances  and 
carrying  people  and  everything  ready,  I  suppose — 
that  he’s  had  to  leave  off  being  a  soldier-doctor  for 
good. 

And  now  that  the  girls  know  it  can’t  be  for  long,  ex¬ 
cept  in  holidays,  that  I  can  look  after  mums,  they're 
very  good  about  letting  me  be  with  her  as  much  as 
I  can.  And  I’ve  got  them  into  pretty  good  ways.  I 
don’t  think  she’ll  miss  me  so  very  much  when  I  go. 

Well,  I  settled  the  breakfast  tray  with  Rowley,  and 
nothing  was  forgotten.  I  let  Rowley  carry  it  up,  be¬ 
cause  I  knew  it  was  safer  for  her  to  do  it,  and  there’s 
no  sense  in  bragging  you’re  bigger  than  you  are,  and 
can  carry  things  that  need  long  arms  when  you  know 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


158 


you  can’t.  But  I  walked  beside  her,  opening  the  doors 
and  watching  that  the  things  didn’t  slide  about ;  that’s 
how  I  always  do.  And  then  when  the  tray  was  safe 
on  the  bed,  and  I  had  arranged  the  “  courses,”  first 
the  roll  and  butter  and  ham  and  egg — I  cracked  the  top 
of  the  egg  and  got  it  ready — and  then  the  muffin  and 
marmalade,  my  nice  time  began.  I  squatted  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  near  enough  to  reach  mums  anything 
she  wanted,  and  then  we  talked. 

We  talk  of  lots  of  things  when  we’re  alone  like  that. 
Mums  tells  me  of  anything  that’s  on  her  mind,  and  I 
comfort  her  up  a  bit.  Of  course  we  talked  about  the 
unlucky  brooch,  and  about  Anne,  and  how  easily  she 
and  Serry  might  have  been  run  over,  or  something  like 
that. 

“Yes,  indeed,’’  said  mums,  “I  often  think  we’re 
not  half  thankful  enough  for  the  misfortunes  that  don't 
happen.  ” 

Just  then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

“Bother!”  thought  I.  I  don’t  think  I  said  it,  for 
mums  thinks  it’s  such  an  ugly  word. 

It  was  Rowley  again. 

<c  Your  letters,  ma’am,”  she  said.  “They  were  for¬ 
gotten  when  I  brought  up  the  tray.  ” 

There  were  only  three.  Two  were  nothing  particular 
— "accounts  or  something.  But  the  third  was  in  a 
strange  handwriting,  and  mums  opened  it  quickly. 

“  It’s  from  Lady  Nearn,”  she  said.  “  I  think  it  ws<s 


I 


160  THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 

rather  me  to  write  to  her.  It's  very  kind  of  her, 
but—” 

She  began  reading  it,  and  her  face  got  very  grave. 

“  Do  leave  it  till  you’ve  finished  your  breakfast, 
'  mums,”  I  said.  “  You’ve  not  even  finished  the  first 
course.  ” 

But  she  scarcely  listened  to  me. 

“  Oh,  Jack  !  ”  she  said,  “Pm  afraid  we  haven’t  got 
to  the  end  of  the  troubles  caused  by  poor  gran’s  dia¬ 
monds  yet.  Oh  dear,  I  shall  be  so  uneasy  for  some 
days  to  come  !  ” 

I  couldn’t  make  out  what  she  meant,  and  when  she 
saw  my  puzzled  face  she  went  on  to  explain.  Lady 
Nearn’s  letter  was  very  kind,  but  she  thought  it  right  to 
tell  mother  that  Anne  and  Serena  had  run  into  some 
risk  by  coming  to  her  house  the  night  before,  for  it  was 
quite  decided  that  three  of  her  children  had  got  whoop¬ 
ing-cough.  Not  the  two  they  had  seen  ;  at  least  she 
still  hoped  they — the  twins — wouldn’t  get  it,  for  they 
were  very  delicate,  and  they  had  been  separated  from 
the  others.  But  still  there  was  no  telling  how  infection 
might  be  caught,  and  she  advised  mother  to  be  pre¬ 
pared  for  her  little  girls  having  perhaps  got  the  illness. 

Mums  did  look  worried. 

‘ 4 It’s  a  most  tiresome  and  trying  thing,”  she  said; 
iC  and  neither  Hebe  nor  Maud  is  very  strong.  Perhaps 
I  shouldn’t  have  told  you,  Jack.  You  must  be  sure 
not  to  speak  of  it  to  any  of  them.” 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


161 


I  promised,  of  course.  And  then  poor  mums,  instead 
of  having  a  nice  rest,  declared  she  must  get  up  at  once, 
and  go  off  to  catch  the  doctor  before  he  went  out 
Wasn't  it  too  bad?  She  wanted  to  know  what  to  do — 
whether  it  was  any  good  trying  to  separate  Anne  and 
Serry  from  the  rest  of  us,  and  how  soon  it  would  show, 
and  a  lot  of  things  like  that.  For  mother  was  an  only 
child  herself,  and  she  always  says  she  isn't  at  all  ex¬ 
perienced  about  children.  She's  had  to  learn  every¬ 
thing  by  us,  you  see. 

Well,  she  did  catch  the  doctor,  and  came  back  look¬ 
ing  rather  jollier.  He  had  comforted  her  up.  There 
were  ten  chances  to  one  against  the  girls  having  got  it, 
he  said  ;  and  as  for  separating  them,  now  they  had 
been  with  us  all,  it  would  be  nonsense. 

Ah,  well  !  doctors  don't  know  everything.  I'd  have 
separated  them  fast  enough,  I  know ;  and  it  would 
have  been  a  good  punishment  for  Anne  and  Serena  to 
have  been  shut  up  for  a  day  or  two  ;  perhaps  it  would 
have  made  them  think  twice  before  doing  some  wild, 
silly  thing  again. 

So  mums  and  I  kept  our  own  counsel.  She  told 
father,  of  course,  but  no  one  else,  not  even  nurse — it 
would  only  have /made  her  nervous.  We  sent  round 
once  or  twice  to  ask  how  the  little  Nearns  were — mums 
wrote  notes,  I  think,  as  she  didn't  want  the  servants 
chattering.  And  we  were  very  sorry  to  hear  that  the 

poor  twins  had  got  it  after  all,  and  rather  badly. 

ii 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


*<J2 

“So  you  see,  Jack,”  said  mother,  “it  wasn’t  any 
good  separating  them.  Dr.  Marshall  must  know.” 

I  think  this  was  rather  a  comfort  to  her.  If  the  doctor 
had  been  right  about  one  thing,  there  was  more  chane 
of  his  being  right  about  another. 

And  for  two  or  three  days  we  all  kept  quite  well,  and 
mother  began  to  breathe  freely. 

But  alas  !  I  think  it  was  about  the  fourth  morning 
after  that  evening,  when  I  ran  into  the  nursery  on  my 
way  down  to  prayers,  I  found  mother  there,  talking  to 
nurse.  Mother  looked  very  grave,  much  worse  than 
nurse,  who  didn't  seem  particularly  put  out. 

“It's  only  a  cold,  ma'am,  I'm  sure,”  she  was  saying. 
“ A  cold  soon  makes  a  child  feverish  and  heavy.  I 
don't  think,  indeed,  there's  any  need  for  the  doctor ; 
but  it's  just  as  you  like,  of  course.” 

Then  “it”  had  come.  Poor  mums!  I  stole  up  to 
her  and  slipped  my  hand  into  hers.  I  understood, 
though  nurse  didn't.  It  was  rather  nice  to  feel  that  I 

was  mother's  sort  of  confi - I'm  not  sure  of  the  word. 

But  who  was  it  that  was  ill  ?  My  heart  did  go  down 
when  I  heard  it  was  not  Anne  or  Serry — really,  I  think 
I'd  have  said  they  deserved  it — but  poor  old  Maudie  ! 
Sensible,  good  little  Maud,  who  never  did  naughty, 
silly  things,  or  teased  anybody.  It  did  seem  too  bad. 

“May  I  run  in  to  see  her?”  I  asked. 

Nurse  would  have  said,  “Yes,  of  course,  Master 
Jack,”  in  a  moment,  but  mother  shook  her  head. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


163 


“Not  till  Dr.  Marshall  has  been,  dear,’’  she  said; 
and  she  gave  my  hand  a  little  squeeze.  I'm  afraid  she 
began  to  wish  she  had  separated  the  girls  after  all. 

I  could  see  that  nurse  thought  mums  very  funny,  as 
she  went  on  asking  ever  so  many  questions  about  Maud 
— above  all,  was  she  coughing  ? 

“A  little/'  said  nurse  ;  “rather  a  croupy,  odd-sound¬ 
ing  sort  of  cough."  But  she  was  too  old  for  croup,  of 
course.  It  was  just  cold. 

“ I  must  go  down  to  prayers  now,"  said  mother.  “I 
will  come  up  immediately  after  breakfast,  and  I  will 
send  for  Dr.  Marshall.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  best.  ” 

Just  then  there  came  the  sound  of  a  cough  from 
Maud's  room — a  queer,  croaky  sort  of  cough — and  we 
heard  the  poor  little  thing  call  out — 

“Oh,  mums,  is  that  you?  Do  come  to  see  me.  I 
does  feel  so  funny." 

“Yes,  darling,  I  will  come  very  soon,"  said  mother. 
It  was  so  queer  to  hear  Maudie  talking  babyishly — she 
always  did  if  she  was  at  all  ill.  As  we  went  downstairs 
I  was  sure  mums  was  crying  a  little. 

Well,  that  was  the  beginning  of  it  all.  When  the 
doctor  came,  of  course  he  looked  very  owly,  and  said 
he  couldn't  say  for  a  day  or  two ;  and  pretended  to  be 
jolly,  and  told  mother  she  wasn't  to  be  so  silly,  and  all 
that  kind  of  talk.  But  after  his  “  day  or  two  " — no,  in« 
deed,  before  they  were  over — he  had  to  allow  there  was 
some  cause  for  grave  looks.  For  by  then  they'd  all  got 


164 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


it — all  except  me  !  Just  fancy,  all  four  of  them  !  The 
nursery  was  like  a  menagerie,  for  no  sooner  did  one 
cough  than  all  the  others  started  too,  and  they  all 
coughed  different  ways.  If  it  hadn’t  been  really  horrid 
it  would  have  been  rather  absurd — something  like  the 
mumps,  you  know.  It’s  all  you  can  do  not  to  laugh 
at  each  other  when  you’ve  got  the  mumps.  I’ll  never 
forget  Serry’s  face, — never,  as  long  as  I  live,  and  she’s 
the  prettiest  of  us,  I  suppose.  I  saw  my  own  once  in 
the  glass,  but  I  wouldn’t  look  again.  And  yet  it’s 
awfully  horrid.  It  hurts — my  goodness  !  doesn’t  it 

i 

just  ? 

There  was  no  good  separating  me.  I  made  mums 
see  that,  and  I  promised  her  I’d  do  my  very  best  not 
to  get  the  whooping-cough  ;  and  I  didn’t !  That  was 
something  to  be  proud  of,  now,  wasn’t  it  ?  You  mightn’t 
think  so,  but  it  was  ;  for  I  really  believe  I  stopped  my¬ 
self  having  it.  Ever  so  often,  when  I  heard  them  a  1 
crowing  and  choking,  and  holding  on  to  the  table,  and 
scolding — how  Serry  did  scold  sometimes  ! — over  it,  I 
felt  as  if  I  was  going  to  start  coughing  and  whooping 
too — I  did,  I  give  you  my  word.  But  I  just  wouldn't. 
I  said  to  myself  it  was  all  fancy  and  nonsense — though 
I  don’t  a  bit  believe  it  was — and  I  drank  some  water, 
and  got  all  right  again.  And  after  a  week  or  two,  the 
catchy  feeling  in  my  throat  went  off. 

It  was  a  good  thing  I  kept  well,  for  mums  did  need 
some  comfort.  The  worst  of  it  didn’t  come  for  a  good 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


165 


while — that’s  the  tiresome  part  of  the  whooping-cough, 
you  never  know  where  you  are  with  it,  it  lasts  such  a 
time  ;  and  when  you  think  it’s  about  over,  very  often 
you  find  children  have  got  some  other  illness  from  it 
— I  mean  something  the  matter  with  their  chests  or 
throats,  or  bothers  like  that. 

It  was  Maud  that  ^ot  it  first,  and  seemed  the  worst 
for  a  good  while  ;  but  then  she  took  a  turn  and  got 
hungry  again,  and  the  doctor  began  to  speak  of  our 
soon  going  away  somewhere  for  change  of  air  ;  and 
we  were  getting  jollier,  and  mums  looking  less  worried, 
when  all  at  once  Hebe  got  very  bad  indeed.  It  was 
partly  her  own  fault,  though  she  hadn’t  meant  it.  She 
had  been  feeling  very  ill  indeed,  but  she  didn’t  like  t<7 
say  so,  for  she  thought  most  likely  the  others  felt  just 
as  bad,  and  you  know  she’s  dreadfully  unselfish.  Often 
and  often  she’d  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  if  Serry 
called  out  she  was  thirsty  or  anything — very  often  it  was 
only  that  she  fancied  the  clothes  were  slipping  off,  or 
some  nonsense  like  that — and  Hebe  may  have  caught 
cold  by  that.  Anyway,  there  came  one  morning  that 
poor  Hebe  couldn’t  get  up  at  all  ;  indeed,  she  could 
scarcely  speak.  We  all  ran  in  to  see  what  was  the 
matter,  and  she  just  smiled  a  tiny  little  smile,  and  put 
out  her  poor  little  hand — it  was  burning  hot — and  whis¬ 
pered,  “I  daresay  I’ll  be  better  soon.” 

Nurse  was  frightened ;  but  she’s  very  good  and 
sensible.  She  just  told  me  to  go  down  to  mother’s 


166 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


room  and  ask  her  to  come  up,  as  Hebe  had  had  a  bad 
night,  and  perhaps  we’d  better  send  for  the  doctor  to 
come  early.  And,  of  course,  I  knew  how  to  do  it 
without  startling  mums  more  than  could  be  helped. 

All  the  same,  if  she  had  been  dreadfully  startled  it 
couldn’t  have  been  worse  than  had  to  be.  For  it  was 

4 

the  beginning  of  Hebe’s  being  awfully  ill.  I  can’t  tell 
you  properly  what  it  was  ;  it  was  something  about  her 
lungs,  so  bad  that  she  was  wrapped  in  blankets  and 
carried  down  to  a  room  beside  mother’s  where  she 
could  be  perfectly  quiet.  And  a  strange  nurse  came — 
one  with  a  cap  and  an  apron,  like  you  see  in  pictures 
of  children  in  hospitals  ;  she  was  rather  pretty  and  not 
old  at  all,  and  she  and  mums  took  turns  of  watching 
Hebe;  and  the  air  of  the  room  had  to  be  kept  exactly 
the  same  hotness,  like  a  vinery,  you  know.  And  there 
was  a  queer,  strange,  solemn  feeling  all  about,  that  I 
can’t  explain.  We  all  felt  it,  even  though  they  didn’t 
tell  us — not  even  me — how  bad  the  poor  little  sweet 
was.  The  angel  of  death  came  very  near  us  that  time, 
mums  told  us  afterwards,  and  I  know  it  was  true. 
One  night  I  almost  felt  it  myself.  I  woke  all  of  a 
sudden,  and  sat  bolt  up  in  bed.  I  had  thought  I  heard 
Hebe  calling  me — I  was  sure  I  did — and  then  I  remem¬ 
bered  I’d  been  dreaming  about  her.  I  thought  \re 
were  walking  in  a  wood.  It  was  evening,  or  aftei- 
noon,  and  it  seemed  to  be  getting  dark,  and  I  fancied 
we  were  looking  for  the  others — it  was  muddled  up 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1 .  167 

with  their  having  gone  out  that  night,  you  see — and  1 
felt  very  worried  and  unhappy. 

“Hebe,”  I  said,  “it's  getting  very  dark.” 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “  it  is,  darker  and  darker,  Jack;" 
and  her  voice  sounded  strange.  “Jack,”  she  went  on, 
“hold  my  hand,  I’m  rather  frightened;”  and  I  felt 
that  she  was  shivering. 

I  think  I  was  rather  frightened  myself,  but  I  tried  to 
comfort  her  up. 

“Perhaps  it’ll  get  lighter  again  after  a  bit, ”  I  said. 
“I  don’t  think  the  sun’s  set  yet.” 

“  Hasn’t  it  ?  ”  she  said.  “I  think  it’s  just  going  to, 
though.  Jack,  can  you  say  that  verse  about  the 
shadows  or  the  darkness  ?  I  can’t  remember  it.” 

But  I  couldn’t  remember  it  properly  either  ;  however 
I  tried.  I  could  only  say,  “  ‘ I  will  be  with  thee’ — is 
it  that,  Hebe? — ‘I  will  be  with  thee.’”  And  she 
squeezed  my  hand  tighter,  and  I  thought  she  said, 
“Yes,  that’s  it,  Jack.” 

And  then  again  I  fancied  she  pulled  her  hand  out  of 
mine,  and  ran  on  in  front  quite  fast,  calling  joyfully, 
“  I  see  them,  Jack.  Come  on  quick — Jack,  Jack.” 

It  was  then  I  awoke,  and  I  found  I  had  been  sqeez- 
ing  my  own  hand  quite  tight.  But  I  felt  sure  Hebe 
had  been  calling  me. 

I  sat  up  and  listened,  but  there  was  no  sound.  I 
began  to  cry  ;  I  thought  Hebe  was  dead,  and  then  I 
remembered  that  the  verse  I  couldn’t  get  right  in  my 


168 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


dream  was  about  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
and  at  first  that  made  me  feel  worse,  till  all  of  a  sudden 
it  came  into  my  head  that  it  wasn't  “the  valley  of 
death”  but  only  “the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.” 
And  that  seemed  to  mean  that  Hebe  had  been  near  it 
— near  death,  I  mean,  —  “  near  enough  for  the  shadow 
of  his  wings  to  fall  over  her,”  was  the  way  mums  said 
it  when  I  told  her  my  dream  afterwards.  That  com¬ 
forted  me.  I  got  out  of  bed  very  softly  in  the  dark¬ 
ness  and  crept  to  the  landing,  where  the  balusters  run 
round,  and  listened. 

The  gas  lamp  was  burning  faintly  down  below,  and 
I  heard  a  slight  rustling  as  if  people  were  moving 
about.  And  after  a  while  the  door  of  a  room  opened 
softly,  and  two  men  came  out.  It  was  father  and  the 
doctor.  I  couldn't  have  believed  big  men  could  have 
moved  so  quietly,  and  I  listened  as  if  I  was  all  ears. 

“I  think,  now - ”  was  the  most  I  could  catch  of 

what  Dr.  Marshall  said. 

But  then  came  much  plainer — of  course  I  know  his 
voice  so  well — from  father,  “  Thank  God 

And  I  knew  Hebe  was  better. 

I  shall  always  think  of  that  night,  always,  even 
when  I'm  quite  old,  when  I  read  that  verse.  After¬ 
wards  mother  explained  to  me  more  about  it.  She 
said  she  thought  that  to  good  people — you  know  what 
I  mean  by  “good  people” — Christians — it  should 
always  seem  as  if,  after  all,  even  when  they  really  do 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


169 


have  to  die,  it  is  only  the  shadow  that  they  have  to  go 
through — “the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  ;  ”  that 
Death  itself  in  any  dreadful  lasting  way  is  not  really 
there,  because  of  the  presence  that  is  promised  to  us — 
“I  will  be  with  thee. ” 

I  can’t  say  it  anything  like  as  nicely  as  mums  did. 
but  I  do  understand  it  pretty  well  all  the  same;  and  it 
ever  I  feel  frightened  of  death  in  a  wrong  way,  I  think 
about  it.  Mother  said  we’re  meant  to  be  afraid  of  death 
in  one  way,  just  as  we  would  be  afraid  and  are  meant 
to  be  afraid  of  anything  dark  and  unknown  and  very 
solemn.  But  that’s  different. 

And  dear  little  Hebe  had  really  been  some  way  into 
the  valley  of  the  shadow.  When  she  got  quite  well, 
she  told  me  about  it — of  the  feelings  and  thoughts  she 
had  had  that  night  when  for  some  hours  they  thought 
she  was  going  far  away  from  us,  out  of  this  world  alto¬ 
gether.  For  she  had  had  all  her  senses.  She  thought 
about  us  all,  and  wished  she  could  see  us,  and  she 
wished  she  could  hold  my  hand — “your  dear,  rough, 
brown  hand,  Jack,”  she  said.  (I’m  not  quite  as  par¬ 
ticular  to  keep  my  hands  very  nice  as  I  should  be,  I’m 
*  afraid  !) 

Wasn’t  it  queer  ?  I’m  sure  her  feelings  had  come  up 
to  me  through  the  floor  and  made  me  dream. 


170 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FOUR  “If’s”  AND  A  COINCIDENCE. 

Now  what  happened  next  was  this — in  one  way  it 
was  almost  the  nicest  thing  that  we  had  ever  had ; 
that  is  to  say,  it  would  have  been  but  for  the  pull-backs 
to  it.  Very  jolly  things  generally  do  have  pull-backs, 
I  think. 

This  was  it.  Everybody  who  knows  anything  about 
children’s  illnesses  knows  that  when  they’re  getting 
better  they  should  have  change  of  air,  especially  after 
whooping-cough.  Indeed,  even  before  they’re  much 
better  of  whooping-cough  they’re  often  sent  away,  for 
change  of  air  helps  actually  to  cure  it.  And  a  week  or 
two  after  Hebe  had  been  so  very  bad,  the  doctor  began 
to  talk  of  the  others  going  away. 

It  was  the  end  of  April  now,  and  it  was  nice,  fine 
weather,  and  promised  to  be  a  mild  spring  and  early 
summer.  Anne  and  Serry  had  really  not  been  very  ill 
in  themselves,  though  they  had  been  noisy  enough  with 
their  coughing.  Maud  had  been  the  worst  next  to  Hebe, 
but  as  she  had  begun  first  she  got  better  first.  And  she 
got  better  in  a  very  sensible  way.  She  did  everything 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


171 


in  a  sensible  way,  you  know.  She  never  fussed  or 
fidgeted,  and  was  very  patient  and  cheerful.  She  took 
all  her  medicines,  and  even  if  nurse  or  mums  forgot 
anything  the  doctor  had  said,  you  may  be  sure,  if  Maud 
herself  had  heard  it,  she  wouldn't  let  it  be  forgotten. 
Yes,  really,  she  was  too  “old-fashioned”  for  anything, 
as  old  nurse  said.  She  wasn't  quite  as  sweet  as  Hebe 
— Hebe  looked  like  a  little  crushed  flower  when  she 
first  began  to  be  better  ;  you  could  scarcely  help  kiss¬ 
ing  her  every  minute.  She  isn’t  so  what  people  call 
“  clinging  ”  as  Hebe,  but  still  she’s  a  good,  kind  little 
girl,  and  it’s  not  hard  to  get  on  with  her.  My  life 
would  be  a  very  different  affair  if  I  had  four  sisters  all 
like  Hebe  and  Maud — wouldn’t  it  just? 

So  Maud  was  pretty  well  again  in  herself,  and  the 
other  two  hadn’t  much  the  matter  with  them,  and  I  of 
course  was  all  right,  though  dear  old  mums  said  I  was 
looking  pale,  and  that  I’d  been  such  a  comfort  to  her 
and  knocked  myself  up.  I  think  she  said  it  partly  to 
show  that  she  wasn’t  thinking  less  of  me  than  of  the 
girls  because  I  hadn’t  been  ill. 

And  just  as  things  were  like  that,  Dr.  Marshall  said 
we  should  go  away  for  change  of  air. 

But  unluckily  “we”  only  meant  Anne  and  Serena 
and  Maudie  and  I.  Not  Hebe — no,  indeed.  That  was 
quite  another  story.  We  wanted  “  bracing,  ”  the  doctor 
said — nice  fresh  hill  or  moor  air,  but  for  Hebe  anything 
like  cold  or  strong  air  was  out  of  the  question.  In  the 


172 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


first  place  she  couldn't  be  moved  for  some  time  yet, 
and  when  she  did  go  it  must  be  to  somewhere  mild. 
He  spoke  of  somewhere  abroad  at  first,  but  then  he 

thought  it  would  be  getting  too  hot  at  the  warm 

« 

places,  and  as  far  as  the  others  were  concerned,  there 
were  just  as  good  in  England.  So  in  a  sort  of  away  it 
came  to  be  settled  that  when  Hebe  did  go,  it  should 
be  to  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

That  didn’t  fix  anything  about  the  rest  of  us,  how¬ 
ever.  And  there  were  a  good  many  thing:  to  think  of. 

X  knew  all  about  them.  You  see  mums  has  always 
told  me  everything.  She  knows  she  can  trust  me. 
It's  with  it  being  so  that  I  have  anything  to  write. 
I’m  behind  the  scenes.  I  don't  see  how  children  who 
are  just  told  things  straight  off  like,  “  You're  going  to 
the  seaside  on  Tuesday,"  or  “  Nurse  is  leaving  to  be 
married,  and  you're  not  going  to  have  a  regular  nurse 
any  more  now  you're  so  big " — I  don't  see  how  they 
could  have  anything  interesting  to  write.  It's  the  way 
things  work  out  that  I  think  makes  life  interesting,  and 
children  don't  pften  look  at  things  that  way.  But  I 
couldn't  have  helped  it,  for  I  knew  all  about  how 
things  happened,  and  how  mother  planned  and  thought 
them  over,  and  when  she  was  happy  and  when  she  was 
anxious.  It  was  all  like  pictures  moving  along— one 
leading  into  another. 

Just  now  mother  was  anxions.  I've  said  already 
that  we're  not  rich — not  as  rich  as  we  look.  That's  to 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


173 


say  it‘s  not  father  s  and  mother's  money,  but  gran's. 
Of  course  you  might  say  that's  the  same  thing—father 
being  an  only  child  and  gran  so  fond  of  him  being  so 
clever  and  distinguished,  though  not  in  ways  that 
make  much  money.  But  it  isn't  the  same,  however 
kind  gran  is. 

And  just  now  it  was  specially  not  the  same.  For,  of 
course,  long  before  this,  gran  had  had  to  be  told  about 

i 

the  sad  loss  of  the  diamond  ornament,  and  it  wasn’t  in 
nature  for  him  to  be  pleased  about  it,  now  was  it? 

He'd  very  likely  have  been  still  more  vexed  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  whooping-cough  coming  so  soon 
upon  the  top  of  it.  He  didn't  know  that  the  one  had 
brought  the  other,  both  thanks  to  Anne.  Father  and 
mother  thought  there  was  no  need  to  tell  him  that  part 
of  it,  for  he  was  always  ready  to  be  down  upon  Anne. 
Her  careless,  thoughtless  ways  were  just  what  worried 
him  particularly. 

But  he  was  kind  and  loving  in  his  own  way.  He 
never  wrote  another  word  cf  reproach  about  the  dia¬ 
mond  thing  after  he  heard  of  the  trouble  we  were  in. 
He  was  very  glad  I  didn't  get  the  illness.  I  don’t 
know  that  I  am  a  special  pet  of  his,  but  I’m  the  only 
boy  and  named  after  him.  I  daresay  it's  that,  though, 
as  far  as  real  favorites  go,  I  think  it's  Hebe  he  cares 
most  for.  He  was  terribly  sorry  about  her,  and  wrote 
that  if  she  needed  anything  expensive,  mother  wasn't 
to  give  two  thoughts  to  the  cost.  That  letter  came 


174 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


just  about  the  time  Dr.  Marshall  said  we  should  all  go 
away,  and  mums  and  I  had  a  talk  over  it. 

“  It's  very  good  of  gran,”  said  mums.  “I  do  think 
he's  been  wonderfully  good.  But  still  it  doesn’t  show 
me  what  to  do.  You  see,  Jack,  when  Hebe  goes  away 
I  must  go  with  her — I  think  Rowley  and  I  could  manage 
without  nurse — and  that  would  be  pretty  expensive  to 
begin  with.  Still,  I  shouldn’t  so  much  mind  writing 
to  him  about  that,  but  it’s  for  the  rest  of  you.  I  don’t 
see  how  I’m  to  manage  it,  and  I  don’t  want  to  worry 
your  father  just  now.  He  is  so  ,busy  with  his  new 
book,  and  he’s  been  so  put  back  with  *the  anxiety  and 
bad  nights  while  Hebe  was  so  ill.” 

For  you  know  it  isn’t  only  writing  books  father  does. 
He’s  busy  all  day  with  his  other  work.  I  don’t  think  I 
should  say  exactly  what  his  appointment  is,  for  then 
you’d  know  who  he  was,  but  it’s  to  do  with  Parliament 
and  the  Government. 

“  Why  can’t  we  go  to  Furzely?”  I  said  stupidly. 
For  I  had  been  told  all  about  it  having  been  let  for  six 
months.  Furzely  is  our — at  least  gran’s — country  house. 
It’s  not  bad,  but  we’re  rather  tired  of  it,  and  the  house¬ 
keeper  is  grumpy.  “That  wouldn’t  cost  much,  would 
it  ?  ” 

“  My  dear  boy,  you  forget,  the  Wilmingtons  are  to 
be  there  till  August.  ” 

“  Oh,  of  course,”  I  said. 

**  And  besides,  Furzely  isn’t  the  sort  of  air  Dr.  Mar* 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I.  175 

shall  wants  for  you  all  just  now,”  she  went  on.  “  It’s 
healthy,  but  it's  nothing  particular  ;  its  not  hill  air  or 
moor  air.  Besides,  it's  out  of  the  question.  Strayling 
or  Fewforest — those  were  the  places  he  said,  or  some¬ 
where  in  their  neighborhood.  And  I  don’t  know  either 
of  them  in  the  least.  Fve  no  idea  if  there  are  lodgings 
or  houses  to  be  got ;  besides  a  house  would  cost  far  too 
much,  and  I  should  have  to  send  two  or  three  servants. 
Oh  dear,  what  troubles  have  come  with  grans  lending 
me  that  unlucky  ornament  !  ” 

“  I  don’t  think  that’s  quite  fair,  mums,”  I  couldn’t 
help  saying.  “  The  troubles  have  come  through  Anne’s 
fault.  I  wish  she  would  see  it  that  way,  but  I  don’t 
believe  she  thinks  about  it  much  now.” 

“  I  hope  she  does,”  said  mother.  “  And  of  course, ” 
she  went  on,  “it’s  wrong  of  me  to  grumble  so.  77/- 
nesses  come  through  nobody’s  fault  !  And  I  should  be 
so  thankful  that  Hebe  is  getting  better  that  nothing  else 
should  seem  anything.  But  it  is  real  practical  difficulty 
about  money  just  now  that  I  mind  the  most.  You  see, 
dear,  I  have  to  pay  all  your  teachers  just  the  same.  It 
wouldn’t  be  fair  to  Miss  Stirling  or  any  of  them  to  stop 
just  because  the  girls  have  got  ill.” 

I  felt  very  sorry,  and  I  didn't  really  know  what  to 
propose. 

“  Isn’t  there  any  one  you  could  ask  about  those 
places  ?”  I  said.  “  Mightn’t  we  perhaps  get  lodgings 
at  a  farm-house,  where  it  wouldn’t  be  at  all  dear?  Not 


176 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


grand  ones,  you  know,  mums.  And  we'd  all  wait  on 
ourselves  a  good  deal,  so  that  nurse  could  help  the 
farmer's  wife  to  cook  for  us  if  she  needed.  Nurse  loves 
cooking." 

Mums  face  cleared  a  little.  She  does  worry  some¬ 
times  more  than  she  needs  to. 

“That  would  be  very  nice,  Jack/’  she  said.  “I 
wonder  if  there's  anybody  who  could  tell  us  about 

t 

where  such  a  place  is  likely  to  be  found. " 

“We'd  live  quite  plainly,"  I  went  on.  “It  would 
be  fun  to  be  almost  like  poor  children  for  a  while.  I 
don't  mean  poor ,  poor  children,  but  like  rather  well-of 
cottage  children." 

“  H-m,"  said  mother.  “  I  don't  think  you’d  find  it 
as  amusing  as  you  think.  However,  you  would  of 
course  have  to  live  plainly  in  some  ways,  but  still  it 
must  be  a  comfortable  sort  of  place.  It  would  not  do 
to  run  any  risks  for  the  girls  after  their  illness." 

Just  at  that  moment  Alfred  brought  in  a  note  that 
had  come,  and  “they,"  he  said — why  do  servants 
always  say  “they"  for  a  messenger  when  there's  only 
one? — “were  waiting  for  an  answer." 

The  note  was  from  young  Mrs.  Chasserton,  Cousin 
Dorothea.  She  had  just  come  back  to  London,  she 
said,  and  she  was  so  sorry  to  hear  how  ill  “  ‘the  chil¬ 
dren  '  had  all  been  " — thank  you,  all  but  one,  if  you 
please.  And  would  mother  come  to  see  her  ?  She  had 
got  a  horrid  cold,  and  couldn't  go  out,  but  she  wasn't 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


177 


a  bit  afraid  of  whooping-cough — she'd  had  it.  “  Please 
come  to  tea  this  afternoon,  and  bring  an  child  that's 
well  enough  to  go  out.'’ 

“  Oh,  I  can't,''  said  mother.  4 'I’ve  too  much  on  my 
mind ! "  • 

“  Oh,  do  go,"  I  said,  “it'll  do  you  good.  You’ve 
not  had  the  least  little  change  for  ever  so  long.  And 
let  me  come  with  you,  mums,  as  the  others  mayn't  go 
out  yet.  I  like  Cousin  Dorothea  ;  and  perhaps  she  could 
tell  us  of  some  farm-house,  as  she  always  lived  in  the 
country. " 

So  mother  wrote  a  word  to  say  she'd  go. 

And  that  afternoon  we  did  go.  I  had  never  been  in 
the  Chassertons'  house  before.  It  was  a  nice  little 
place,  and  it  was  all  decked  out  like  a  doll's  house 
with  Dorothea's  wedding  presents.  I  amused  myself 
very  well  by  walking  round  the  room  looking  at  them 
all.  They  weren't  very  well  arranged.  There  was  a 
corner  cupboard  with  glass  doors,  filled  with  china, 
and  it  was  all  mixty-maxty.  Blue  or  plain-colored 
china  on  the  same  shelf  as  many-colored  Dresden  or 
oriental.  (I  know  something  about  china,  and  I  mean 
to  know  more  before  I've  done  with  it.)  The  key  was 
in  the  lock,  and  I  couldn't  resist  opening  the  doors  and 
moving  one  or  two  pieces  to  see  how  much  better  they 
might  look. 

But  just  then  Dorothea  called  me  over  to  tea.  She 

was  a  sensible  girl.  She'd  had  some  bread-and-butter 

12 


178 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


and  jam  ready  spread,  thicker  than  those  silly  wafer 
slices  ladies  eat,  and  the  jam  was  my  favorite — straw¬ 
berry.  I  felt  very  comfortable.  I  was  glad  I'd  made 
mother  come.  She  looked  brighter. 

I  spoke  to  Cousin  Dorothea  about  the  bad  way  her 
china  was  arranged. 

“  Yes,”  she  said,  “  I  know  it  is.” 

She  spoke  quite  gravely,  but  still  I  thought  I  saw  a 
smile  go  round  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  I  suppose 
she  was  thinking  it  was  very  funny  for  a  boy  to  care 
how  china  was  arranged.  I  don't  see  why.  Boys  have 
got  eyes,  and  some  of  them  had  got  good  taste — more 
than  some  girls. 

“  It  was  washed  while  we  were  away,”  she  said, 
“and  the  housemaid  put  it  all  in,  according  to  the  size 
of  the  things,  I  suppose.  Nothing  to  do  with  the  color 
or  kinds.” 

“  I’ve  moved  a  few  of  them,”  I  said;  “they  look 
better  already.  You’ve  got  some  nice  bits  ;  there  are 
one  or  two  very  old  ;  I  think  I  saw  some  Worcester.” 

“  How  learned  you  are,  Jack  !  ”  said  Dorothea. 

But  I  didn’t  see  it.  Nothing’s  easier  than  to  pick  up 
a  smattering — just  enough  to  tell  one  cup  from  another, 
and  to  seem  very  wise  about  it.  I  didn’t  mean  to  do 
that. 

“No,”  I  said;  “I’m  not.  There’s  one  cup  I  can’t 
make  out  at  all.” 

“Do  you  mean  the  one  with  the  deep  purplish 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


179 


flowers  ?  ”  said  she.  “Oh,  it  is  sharp  of  you  to  have 
spotted  that  one  !  No  one  knows  for  certain  what  it  is  ; 
it  was  given  me  by  an  old  servant  of  ours  who  married 
and  went  to  live  up  in  Yorkshire  ;  and  once  when  we 
were  at  Harrogate  we  went  to  see  her.  She  said  there 
were  a  few  old  pieces  of  it  in  the  cottage  her  husband 
and  she  lived  at  when  they  were  first  married,  and  she 
gave  us  each  one  for  a  keepsake/' 

“Was  she  your  nurse?  ”  asked  mother. 

“No,  only  a  housemaid;  but  she  was  a  particularly 
nice  woman,  superior  to  her  station.  And  she  and  her 
husband  have  got  on  very  well.  He  was  under-bailiff 
to  Lord  Uxfort  up  in  the  north,  and  then  an  uncle  died 
and  left  him  a  small  farm  near — oh,  where  is  it  near? 
I  forget, — but  it's  not  so  very  far  from  London.  I've 
always  promised  to  go  to  see  her  some  day.” 

“That  reminds  me,”  said  mums.  “I  haven't  told 
you  our  present  difficulty.  ” 

Till  now  Dorothea  had  been  hearing  about  the 
whooping-cough,  and  asking  all  about  the  diamond 
brooch  losing.  She  had  known  about  it,  for  father  had 
written  to  Mr.  Chasserton  to  ask  if  Cousin  Dorothea 
could  possibly  throw  any  light  upon  it, — had  she 
noticed  it  on  their  way  home,  or  had  she  only  noticed 
it  going  there,  or  when  ? — but  she  hadn't  been  able  to 
remember  anything  at  all. 

She  was  sorry  about  it ;  she's  very  sweet,  very  sweet 
indeed,  and  nice  to  tell  troubles  to  ;  she  looks  so  sorry 


180 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


with  her  kind  blue  eyes,  though  I  don't  think  she's  a 
very  clever  girl. 

“I  feel  quite  guilty  about  it  all,”'  she  said  ;  “for  it 
was  for  my  sake  you  went  to  that  unlucky  Drawing¬ 
room,  and  that  all  these  troubles  came.  But  what  was 
the  new  one  you  were  going  to  tell  me  about,  dear 
V aleria  ?  ” 

“Oh,  that  isn't  exactly  a  trouble,  only  a  difficulty," 
said  mums.  And  she  went  on  to  explain  about  the 
change  to  the  country  and  my  idea  of  a  farmhouse. 

Cousin  Dorothea  listened,  and  tried  to  look  very 
wise. 

“  I'm  afraid  nowhere  near  my  home  would  be  any 
good,”  she  said.  “Devonshire's  not  bracing  at  all.” 

Suddenly  a  thought  jumped  into  my  head. 

“  That  nice  woman,”  I  said,  “  the  one  who  gave  you 
the  cup,  is  it  bracing  where  she  lives  ?  ”  ' 

Dorothea  gave  a  little  jump. 

“Oh,”  she  said,  “she'd  be  the  very  person  to  take 
care  of  the  children  if  she  had  rooms,  and  if  her  hus¬ 
band  would  let  her  take  lodgers,  and  if  the  place  is 
bracing,  and  if  I  could  remember  where  it  is  !  ” 

We  couldn't  help  laughing. 

“  Four  ‘ ifs  '  indeed,”  said  mother. 

But  Dorothea  didn't  laugh  ;  she  was  too  busy  cudg¬ 
elling  her  brains. 

u  I've  a  feeling,”  she  said,  “  that  it  is  a  bracing  place ; 
that  Hppier — isn't  it  a  funny  name  for  a  woman,  it  was 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


181 


her  surname,  and  the  boys  used  to  call  her  all  manner 
of  nonsense  because  of  it — ‘  Iliad’  and  ‘  Odyssey'  of 
course, — I’ve  a  feeling  that  Homer  wrote  something 
about  moors  and  fresh  air.  If  I  could  but  remember !  ” 
“  Would  you  know  it  if  you  heard  it  ?  ”  I  said. 
“Suppose  we  got  a  railway  guide  and  looked  at 
some  names  ?  ”  said  mother. 

‘  *  Is  there  a  railway  station  there  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Oh  yes,  I  know  there  is  one  near,  for  Homer  wrote 
all  that  when  she  asked  us  to  go  down  for  a  day.  Stay, 
there's  something  about  English  history  mixed  up  with 
it  in  my  mind.  I  do  believe  it’s  coming.  Ring  the 
bell,  Jack,  dear,  and  we’ll  look  through  an  A  B  C.  It’s 
something  about  putting  the  fires  out  at  night,  you 
know — the  old  law.  ” 

“Curfew  ?  ”  said  mother. 

“Ye-es,  but  it’s  not  quite  that.  But - ” 

Just  then  the  servant  came,  and  we  got  the  railway 
guide. 

“Look  at  ‘f’s,’  Jack,”  said  Dorothea. 

I  read  some  “  fs,”  but  she  shook  her  head.  Then  I 
said  to  mother — 

“  Here’s  one  of  the  places  Dr.  Marshall  was  speaking 

about  ‘  Fewforest,’  it - ” 

Cousin  Dorothea  clapped  her  hands. 

“That's  it,”  she  said  joyfully. 

44  What  a  coincidence  !  ”  said  mother.  * 

44  I  remember  about  it  now,”  said  Dorothea.  94  They 


182 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


were  so  afraid  of  fire  there,  because  the  village  stands 
close  to  a  thick  wood — at  least  it  did  then — that  the 
Curfew  bell  was  rung  there  long  after  it  had  been  given 
up  in  many  places.  And  so  it  got  from  Curfew  Forest 
to  Fewforest.” 

“  It  must  be  a  jolly  old  place,  mums,”  I  said  “  Do 
let's  find  out  about  it/' 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


183 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MOSSMOOR  FARM. 

And  so  we  did.  Dorothea  wrote  to  her  home,  and 
got  Mrs.  Parsley’s  proper  address.  Mrs.  Parsley  was 
the  farmers  wife  who  used  to  be  “Homer” — rather  a 
come-down  from  “  Homer  ’'to  “  Parsley/'  wasn't  it? 
and  it  was  near  Fewforest.  Then  she  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Parsley,  “  sounding  ”  her  a  little,  and  the  day  she  got  the 
answer  she  brought  it  straight  off  to  us. 

Mums  and  I  were  in  the  little  drawing-room  by  our¬ 
selves,  for  the  girls  were  still  kept  rather  out  of  the  way, 
as  they  coughed  a  good  deal  now  and  then.  Hebe  by 
this  time  was  able  to  get  up  a  little  and  lie  on  a  sofa 

t 

in  her  room,  and  the  others  used  to  go  in  and  sit  with 
her  in  turns, — Anne  the  most,  of  course,  for  she  reads 
aloud  nicely,  and  she’s  not  at  all  stupid,  and  Hebe’s 
very  fond  of  her.  I  used  to  sit  with  her  too  a  good 
deal,  but  really  that  spring  I  was  very  busy.  I  had 
some  of  my  lessons.  I  went  to  Miss  Stirling’s  house 
when  the  girls  began  to  get  better,  instead  of  her  coming 
to  us,  just  for  fear  of  infection,  as  she’d  never  had  the 


184 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


whooping-cough.  And  I  had  heaps  to  do  for  mother, 
besides  helping  to  amuse  the  two  little  ones. 

My  greatest  rest  was  to  be  alone  with  mums  some¬ 
times  for  a  bit  in  the  afternoon.  Now  and  then  I  had 
tea  with  her. 

We  were  having  tea  that  day  when  Cousin  Dorothea 
came  in,  all  in  a  fuss  and  quite  eager.  She  had  just 
got  the  letter. 

“Such  a  nice  answer  from  dear  old  Homer,  ”  she  said. 
“She’ll  be  delighted  to  do  anything  for  relations  of 
mine,  and  she  doesn’t  think  you  could  find  a  healthier 
place.  It’s  as  bracing  as  anything,  and  yet  not  cold. 
She  says  there’s  a  small  convalescent  Home  not  far 
from  the  farm,  and  that  the  place  was  chosen  out  of 
ever  so  many  by  some  rich  people  who  built  it,  just 
because  of  its  healthiness.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I’m  sure  I’ve  heard  of  that  Home  before,  but  I  can't 
think  from  whom.” 

“That’s  all  very  satisfactory  indeed,  and  thank  you 
very  much,  dear,”  said  mother.  “But— what  about 
the  possibility  of  lodgings  ?  ” 

“  I  was  coming  to  that,”  said  Dorothea,  and  indeed 
she  was  almost  out  of  breath  with  such  a  lot  to  tell. 
“  Homer  says  there  are  really  none  to  be  had - ” 

“  Oh  dear  !  ”  exclaimed  mums  and  I. 

“But,”  Dorothea  went  on,  “they  have  some  spare 
rooms  at  the  farm,  and  occasionally  they  have  had 
thoughts  of  letting  them — I  mean,  of  taking  lodgers* 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


185 


But  they're  very  plainly  furnished,  and  she's  always 
busy,  so  her  husband  was  rather  afraid  of  beginning  it 
She  wouldn  t  exactly  like  to  offer  them,  but  she  says  if 
my  friends  would  go  down  to  see  the  rooms,  and 
thought  they’d  do,  she  would  be  pleased  to  do  her 
best.  I  can  guarantee  they’d  be  beautifully  clean” 

Dorothea  looked  quite  excited  about  it.  She  was  so 
proud  of  being  able  to  help  mums. 

“I  think  it  sounds  charming,”  said  mother.  “  How 
many  rooms  are  there  ?  ” 

“Two  big  bedrooms,  and  a  tiny  one,  and  a  sort  of 
best  kitchen  that  could  be  made  comfortable  in  a  plain 
way  as  a  sitting-room,”  said  Dorothea  consulting  the 
letter.  “You  could  take  down  a  few  sofa  rugs,  and 
fwo  or  three  folding  chairs  and  so  on,  I  daresay  ?  ” 

“Oh  yes,  easily,”  said  mother.  “  But  I  quite  agree 
with  Mrs.  Parsley  that  I  had  better  see  the  rooms. 
How  long  does  it  take  by  train,  and  how  far  is  the 
farm — what's  the  name  of  it,  by  the  bye? — from  the 
station  ?  ”  , 

“About  a  mile  and  a  half.  But  they  have  a  pony- 
cart  of  some  kind  and  could  meet  you.  The  name  is 
Mossmoor — Mossmoor  Farm,  Fewforest.” 

It  seemed  wonderfully  lucky.  We  were  all  three  as 
pleased  as  anything.  There  was  only  one  thing  I 
wanted  to  make  sure  of. 

“Mums,”  I  whispered.  I  was  just  giving  her  her 
second  cup  of  tea.  I  always  make  her  tea  when  we're 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


186 

alone.  “Mums,  if  you  do  go  down  one  day  to  see  the 
farm,  you’ll  take  me  with  you,  won’t  you? ” 

Cousin  Dorothea  has  quick  ears.  She  overheard. 
“Oh  yes,  Valeria,”  she  said,  “you  must  take  him. 
I  consider  it’s  more  than  half  thanks  to  him  that  we've 
thought  of  it.  ” 

I  do  like  Dorothea. 

Mums  smiled. 

“We  must  see  what  father  says,”  she  answered. 
“  Of  course  there’s  the  railway  fare.” 

“But  you  couldn’t  go  alone,  mums,”  I  reminded  her  ; 
“and  you  know  I’m  only  half,  still.  Father  would 
never  have  time  to  go,  and  if  you  took  Rowley  she’d 
cost  full  fare.” 

“  Oh,  you  old-fashioned  child  !  ”  said  Cousin 
Dorothea,  laughing.  “Dear,  you  must  take  him.” 

I  felt  sure  mums  would,  after  that. 

“I  know  I  could  help  you  about  the  rooms  and 
everything  better  than  anybody,”  I  said. 

And  I  knew  I  could. 

I  did  go.  Father  laughed  and  said  I  was  the  proper 
person  to  take  his  place,  as  he  couldn’t  possibly  go. 
So  it  was  settled,  and  one  fine  morning  off  we  set. 

It  was  really  a  fine  morning, — I  don't  mean  it  only 
as  an  expression.  It  was  really  a  lovely  morning. 
Let  me  see,  it  must  have  been  May  by  then.  I’ll  look 
it  up  in  my  diary  of  that  year,  and  fill  in  the  exact  date 
afterwards.  It  was  sunny  and  mild,  though  there  was 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


a  little  nice  wind  too.  Mums  and  I  felt  like  two  chil¬ 
dren  out  of  school,  or  two  captives  out  of  prison,  when 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  jolly  comfortable  railway  car¬ 
riage  all  alone,  flying  along  through  the  bright  green 
fields  with  the  trees  in  their  new  spring  dresses  and 
the  sky  as  blue  as  blue, — all  so  jolly,  you  know,  after 
the  long  winter  in  our  London  square  and  all  the 
troubles  we’d  had. 

Everything  seemed  at  last  to  be  going  to  begin  to 
come  right. 

“I  feel  in  such  much  better  spirits,"  said  mums. 

4 ‘Hebe  does  seem  to  be  improving  so  fast  now,  and 
the  weather  is  so  nice." 

Dear  little  mums,  she  was  looking  so  pretty.  She 
had  a  brown  dress  with  very  soft,  fussy  trimming,  and 
a  brown  bonnet,  with  something  pink — just  a  tiny  bit 
of  pink.  She  generally  wears  bonnets,  except  when 
we’re  regularly  in  the  country.  They  suit  her,  and  I 
like  them  better  than  hats  for  her.  I  hate  those  mothers 
who  are  always  trying  to  look  young.  And  I  think 
mums  looks  all  the  younger  because  she  dresses  like  a 
mother  and  not  like  a  girl.  I’ve  got  ideas  about  dress¬ 
ing  though  I  am  a  boy.  I  can’t  help  having  them. 

“I  do  hope  Mossmoor  Farm  will  be  nice,"  she  went 
on  again.  “The  only  thing  is  I  wish  we  were  going 
to  be  all  together  there. " 

“  So  do  I, "  I  said.  I  hate  being  away  from  mums, 
and  then  I’ve  a  feeling  she  may  be  wanting  me  always* 


188 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1 . 


“  Perhaps,  if  Hebe  gets  much  stronger  at  Ventnor, 
after  two  or  three  weeks  there,  the  doctor  may  let  us 
join  you  all  at  this  place,”  said  mother. 

That  was  a  nice  idea. 

“It  would  be  awfully  jolly/' I  said.  “We'd  have 
nothing  left  to  wish  for  then,  would  we,  mums,  except 
—-if  only  the  diamond  thing  could  be  found  ! 99 

I  don’t  know  what  put  it  in  my  head  just  then  ;  we 
hadn’t  spoken  of  it  for  ever  so  long.  I  was  almost 
sorry  I  had  said  it,  for  mums’  face  clouded  over  a  little. 

“Yes,  indeed,”  she  said.  “But  I  fear  there’s  no 
chance  of  that  now.  And  really  gran  has  been  so  good 
about  it.  He  might  have  been  very,  very  angry  ;  for, 
after  all,  it  was  a  sort  of  carelessness  of  mine.  I  should 

have  made  sure  it  was  firm  the  very  last  moment  be- 

/ 

fore  I  put  it  on.  ” 

But  I  began  to  talk  of  other  things  to  put  it  out  of 
her  head.  And  before  long — at  least  it  didn’t  seem 
long,  railway  journeys  do  so  depend  on  how  you’re 
feeling — we  pulled  up  at  a  pretty  little  station,  and  we 
saw  that  the  name  of  it  was  Fewforest. 

We  got  out,  feeling  rather  important,  and  perhaps 
mums  was  a  tiny  bit  nervous.  You  see  she’s  very 
seldom  had  to  do  things  like  looking  for  houses,  by 
herself.  She’s  always  nearly  had  father  or  gran.  She 
was  rather  proud  of  it,  too,  and  so  was  I.  I  was  de¬ 
termined  she  shouldn’t  feel  lonely  or  bothered  if  I  coul<2 
help  it. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


189 


And  everything  went  wonderfully  right.  It  is  like 
that  sometimes. 

To  begin  with,  I  never  saw  a  jollier  railway  station. 
It  seems  in  the  middle  of  a  wood,  and  the  station- 
master’s  house  is  like  a  Swiss  cottage.  I've  never 
been  in  Switzerland — I've  never  been  out  of  England, 
— but  mother  has,  lots,  and  of  course  Eve  seen  pictures. 
And  everybody  says  Fewforest  is  quite  as  pretty  as 
heaps  of  places  people  travel  miles  and  miles  over  the 
sea  to  visit. 

There  was  a  little  kind  of  a  phaeton  standing  out¬ 
side,  and  a  rather  fat  boy  with  red  cheeks  on  the  box. 

He  touched  his  cap  as  we  came  out,  and,  getting 
still  redder,  he  mumbled  something  about  “  Measter 
Parsley/’ and  “Mossmoor.” 

“Yes,”  said  mother,  “we  are  going  to  Mossmoor 
Farm.  Are  you  to  drive  us  ?  ” 

He  touched  his  cap  again,  and  tried  to  explain  that 
his  master  was  very  sorry  he  couldn’t  come  himself ; 
something  or  other  unexpected,  we  couldn’t  make  out 
what,  having  happened  to  prevent  him. 

I  wasn’t  sorry.  If  the  farmer  had  come,  we’d  have 
had  to  talk  to  him,  for  civility’s  sake,  and  it  would 
have  been  a  great  bore,  when  we  wanted  to  talk  to 
each  other  and  to  look  about  us.  We  certainly  didn’t 
need  to  talk  to  the  fat  boy.  He  looked  most  thankful 
when  we  were  settled  in  our  places  behind,  and  he 
didn’t  have  to  see  us  at  all,  though  his  ears  kept  red  all 


190 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


the  way  to  Mossmoor,  I  could  see,  just  from  shyness. 
I  got  to  know  him  quite  well  afterwards,  and  his  ears 
weren't  generally  redder  than  other  people’s.  He  was  a 
nice  boy  ;  his  name  was  Simon  Wanderer  ;  it  didn’t 
suit  him,  for  he’d  never  been  farther  away  from  his 
home  at  Mossmoor  than  six  miles.  I  don’t  believe  he 
has  yet,  though  he  must  be  seventeen  by  now. 

It  was  a  lovely  drive.  I  have  been  it  lots  of  times 
since,  of  course,  and  I  always  like  it ;  but  that  first 
time  there  was  something  extra  about  it.  It  was  all 
new  to  us,  and  then  we  did  so  enjoy  being  in  the 
country  again,  and  there  was  a  nice  feeling  as  if  we 
were  having  an  adventure  too. 

Part  of  the  way  is  all  through  woods  ;  then  after 
that  comes  a  heathy  bit,  and  then  a  clear  bit  of  com¬ 
mon,  and  then  you  go  up  for  a  while  with  trees  thick 
at  one  side  of  the  road  and  at  the  other  a  beautiful  sort 
of  stretching-to-the-sky  view.  Then  you  turn  sharp 
down  a  lane,  and  at  a  comer  where  another  lane — 
quite  a  short  one — leads  on  to  a  heath  again,  is  the 
Farm. 

We  got  out  at  the  gate.  There’s  no  drive  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  this  first  time  Mrs.  Parsley 
wouldn’t  have  thought  it  “  manners  ”  to  meet  us  in  the 
stable-yard.  She  was  standing  at  the  gate.  I  saw  in 
a  minute  she  was  nice.  She  had  a  pleasant  face,  not 
loo  smiley,  and  no  make  up  about  it. 

“lam  pleased  to  see  you,  ma’am,”  she  said,  “and 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


191 


Master  Warwick  too,  and  Fm  so  glad  it's  a  fine  day. 
Real  May  weather,  isn’t  it,  ma’am  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  indeed,”  said  mums.  “  We  couldn’t  see  your 
pretty  home  to  greater  advantage,  Mrs.  Parsley.” 

Then  Mrs.  Parsley  smiled  more  than  she  had  done 
yet. 

“ 1  can’t  deny,  ma’am,  that  it’s  a  sweet  spot,”  she 
said,  “ and  a  healthy.  It’s  coldish  in  winter,  it’s  true, 
but  then  it’s  a  cold  that  you  don’t  feel  in  the  same 
piercing  way  as  when  it’s  damp.  The  air’s  that  brac¬ 
ing  about  here,  ma’am.  ” 

“So  they  tell  me,”  said  mother.  “And  that’s  just 
what  we’re  looking  for.”  Then  she  went  on  to  tell 
about  the  whooping-cough  and  though,  Cousin  Doro¬ 
thea  had  written  about  it  already,  Mrs.  Parsley  seemed 
as  interested  as  could  be.  People  like  that — I  mean 
people  you  can’t  call  gentlemen  and  ladies,  though 
they’re  not  poor,  and  regular  poor  people,  too — do  love 
talking  about  illnesses — other  people’s  as  well  as  their 
own.  And  she  had  a  lot  of  questions  to  ask  about 
“Miss  Dorothea”  too.  She  “did  hope  as  she’d  come 
down  to  Mossmoor  some  day.” 

All  this  time  we  were  going  towards  the  house. 
But  it  was  rather  a  slow  business,  doing  so  much  talk¬ 
ing  by  the  way,  and  I  was  in  a  fidget  to  see  the  rooms 
and  find  out  if  they’d  do.  There  was  no  hall  or 
passage  ;  we  went  straight  into  a  large  kitchen,  a  very 
large  one.  You  didn’t  see  at  first  how  big  it  was, 


192 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


because  just  round  the  door — to  keep  out  the  draught, 
I  suppose — there  was  a  fixed  wooden  screen,  like  what 
you  see  in  lots  of  cottages.  I  was  a  little  surprised 
that  there  was  no  hall,  for,  outside,  the  house  looked 
really  rather  grand  ;  it  might  have  been  called  4  4  Moss- 
moor  Grange/'  for  it  was  built  of  nice  dull  red  old 
bricks  and  the  windows  were  very  pretty — out-jutting, 
you  know,  and  with  tiny  panes.  But  once  you  were 
well  inside  the  kitchen  you  couldn't  have  wished  it  any 
different.  It  was  so  jolly  ;  not  a  bit  messy,  you  know, 
as  if  plates  and  dishes  were  washed  there,  or  potatoes 
peeled,  or  anything  like  that,  for  there  was  a  good- 
sized  back  kitchen  where  all  that  was  done.  The  floor 
was  tiled,  with  good  thick  rugs  here  and  there,  and 
there  was  a  regular  old  grandfather's  clock  and  bright 
brass  pans  and  things  on  the  wall. 

I  wondered  at  first  if  this  could  be  the  kitchen  we 

were  to  have  as  a  sitting-room.  But  Mrs.  Parsley  soon 

% 

explained. 

“Won't  you  sit  down  and  rest  a  bit,  ma’am,"  she 
said,  “before I  show  you  the  rooms  ?  " 

But  mums  and  I  both  said  we  weren't  at  all  tired. 

/ 

44  Well,  then,"  she  said,  44  if  you’ll  be  so  good,  we’ll 
step  through  this  way,"  and  she  opened  a  door  at 
quite  the  other  side  of  the  kitchen.  “You’ll  have  a 
little  lunch,  I  hope”  said  the  kind  woman,  44  after  we’ve 
seen  the  rooms."  and  she  nodded  towards  a  table, 
which  was  all  spread  with  a  white  cloth  and  on  it  two 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


193 


or  three  dishes,  one  with  a  cold  ham,  and  another  with 
some  kind  of  a  pie  or  tart,  and  a  big  jug  of  milk.  I 
was  getting  hungry,  but  still  I  cared  most  of  all  to  see 
the  rooms. 

Through  the  door  there  was  a  tiny  hall.  It  had  a 
nice  window,  and  a  door  stood  open  at  the  other  end. 

“This  is  the  summer  kitchen,  as  we  always  call  it/* 
said  Mrs.  Parsley.  “  I  had  a  little  fire  lighted  just  for 
you  to  see,  it’s  nice  and  comfortable,” — she  called  it 
“corn,0  not  cum-li  fortable,” — “even  if  the  weather's 
chilly.” 

It  was  a  dear  room — beautiful  deep  windows  with 
seats  round  them,  and  nice  old  cupboards,  one  with 
glass  doors,  and  a  queer  kind  of  sofa  with  a  straight-up 
back  and  a  long  red  cushion.  The  chairs  were  plain 
wood  and  everything  was  plain,  but  not  a  bit  common  ; 
ever  so  much  nicer  than  lodgings,  you  know,  like  what 
there  are  sometimes  at  the  sea-side  with  horrid  flowery 
carpets  all  staring,  and  mirrors  with  gilt  frames,  and 
shaky  little  chiffoniers  that  won’t  hold  anything.  Here 
it  was  all  solid  and  comfortable  ;  there  was  nothing  we 
could  break  supposing  we  did  “rampage”  about,  as 
nurse  calls  it.  Even  the  kitchen  fireplace  was  nice  ;  I 
thought  to  myself  what  jolly  toffy  we  could  make  on 
a  wet  day. 

“Oh,  this  is  a  nice  room,  ”  said  mums;  “nothing 
could  be  better.” 

Mrs.  Parsley  did  look  pleased,  and  in  a  minute  or 

13 


194 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


two  she  opened  a  door  we  hadn't  noticed.  It  looker 
like  a  part  of  the  wooden  panels,  and  there  was  a  funny 
little  stair. 

“This  leads  to  the  small  bedroom,  ma’am,”  she 
’  said.  “There’s  a  door  through  it  to  the  other  two, 
but  there’s  also  doors  to  them  on  the  landing  over  the 
big  kitchen,  which  you  get  to  up  the  regular  staircase. 
But  if  the  young  gentleman  was  to  have  this  room  it 
might  be  a  convenience  for  him  to  get  to  it  without 
having  to  go  all  the  way  round  and  pass  through  the 
•other  bedrooms. ” 

It  was  a  funny  little  room — very  jolly  though — just 
a  bed  and  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  toilet-table,  and  a  shelf 
.across  a  corner  for  a  washhand-stand,  and  two  chairs. 
But  I  liked  it  very  much,  and  the  two  big  bedrooms 
that  we  got  into  through  it  were  really  very  nice — car¬ 
pets  in  the  middle,  and  in  one  a  regular  polished  bed¬ 
stead  with  curtains.  /  wouldn’t  have  liked  it,  but,  as 
it  turned  out,  Anne  did.  And  it  was  very  big  ;  plenty 
of  room  for  her  and  Maud  too.  In  the  other  room  there 
were  two  smaller  beds ;  one  would  do  for  Serry,  and 
the  other  for  nurse. 

And  everything  was  as  clean  as  clean — lavendery  too 
—not  a  bit  fusty  or  musty. 

“  Really,”  said  mums,  “  nothing  could  be  nicer.  I 

% 

/  suppose  these  are  all  the  rooms  you  have  to  spare,  Mrs. 
.Parsley?  ” 

There  was  one  other,  as  tiny  as  mine,  but  it  was  af 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


195 


the  opposite  side  of  the  house.  Still  mother  thought  it 
would  do  for  me  if  Hebe  was  able  to  come  at  tl\e  end 
of  the  time,  and  then  nurse  could  have  mine. 

“  And  if  I  could  run  down  myself  for  a  night  or  so,* 
she  said,  “  I  daresay  Serry  and  Maud  could  sleep  to¬ 
gether  ;  there'd  be  plenty  of  room  for  me  beside  Anne.* 

Then  she  and  Mrs.  Parsley  went  on  to  talk  about 
sheets  and  pillow-cases,  and  stupid  things  like  that,  so 
I  took  out  my  note-book — I  always  have  a  note-book 
—and  went  poking  about  to  see  what  things  we'd 
better  bring  down  with  us  from  London.  I  made  quite 
a  tidy  list,  though  mums  wouldn't  let  me  bring  all  I 
wanted  ;  and  some  of  the  things  Mrs.  Parsley  had 
already  when  I  spoke  about  them,  only  she  hadn't  put 
them  out. 

Then  we  went  down  again  by  the  big  staircase — all 
old  brown  wood  and  nobbly  balusters  :  mother  said  it 
was  really  beautiful — which  ran  down  to  a  kind  of  hall 
behind  the  kitchen,  and  then  we  had  luncheon.  I’ll 
never  forget  it.  Either  I  was  awfully  hungry,  or  the 
things  were  extra  good — perhaps  both — but  I  don't 
think  I  ever  tasted  such  nice  ham,  or  such  a  splendid 
home-made  cake. 


196 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


( 

CHAPTER  IX. 

SPYING  THE  LAND. 

After  luncheon  we  had  still  an  hour  and  a  half 
before  we  needed  to  start  for  the  station.  Mrs.  Parsley 
asked  us  if  we  would  like  to  stroll  about  the  garden  and 
the  farm  a  little,  but  mums  was  tired.  She  did  go  out¬ 
side  the  house  to  a  nice-sheltered  corner  where  there 
was  a  rustic  bench,  and  there  she  said  she  would  enjoy 
the  air  and  rest  at  the  same  time. 

But  I  wasn't  the  least  tired.  I  wanted  to  enjoy  the 
air  without  resting.  So  mums  asked  Mrs.  Parsley  to 
tell  me  where  I  could  go  without  any  fear  of  losing  my 
way,  or  coming  back  too  late. 

Mrs.  Parsley  considered. 

“  There's  a  beautiful  path  through  the  wood,"  she 
said,  “  that  brings  you  out  at  the  end  of  what  we  call 
our  village.  It’s  ‘Fewforest,  South  End,'  by  rights,  for 
Fewforest  is  very  straggly.  It’s  divided  into  north  end 
and  south  end,  and  houses  between,  here  and  there. 
The  old  church  is  at  South  End,  I'm  glad  to  say,  for  it 
makes  it  nice  and  convenient  for  us  ;  no  excuses  for 
staying  away  if  it’s  a  bad  day,  though,  indeed,  I  think 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1.  197 

our  folk  love  their  church.  We’ve  been  very  favored 
in  the  clergy  here  for  a  many  years.” 

“  I’d  like  to  see  the  church,”  I  said.  I  always  like  to 
see  churches.  ‘ 4 Will  it  be  open,  Mrs.  Parsley?” 

“Oh,  yes,  sir,  bless  you,  sure  to  be.  We’ve  all  the 
new  ways  here,  Mr.  Joyce  would  never  hold  with  a 
church  that  was  kept  locked.  ” 

Mother  smiled  a  little. 

“The  old  ways,  I  like  to  call  them,  Mrs.  Parsley,” 
she  said.  “  The  old  ways  we’re  coming  back  to,  I’m 
glad  to  say,  after  putting  them  aside  for  so  long  that 
people  had  almost  forgotten  they  were  the  really  old 
original  ones.” 

Mrs.  Parsley  didn’t  mind  her  saying  that,  I  could 
see. 

“True,  ma’am,  that’s  just  as  Mr.  Joyce  puts  it,”  she 
said. 

Then  she  explained  to  me  exactly  how  I  should  go. 
I  was  to  make  a  round,  coming  back  by  the  high  road. 
In  this  way  I  should  pass  up  the  village,  and  see  the 
post-office,  which  was  also  a  telegraph  office,  and  the 
doctor’s  house.  It’s  always  a  good  thing  in  a  new 
place  to  see  all  you  can. 

“And  some  little  distance  behind  the  church,  so  to 
say,”  added  Mrs.  Parsley,  “standing  on  rather  high 
ground,  you’ll  see  the  Convalescent  Home,  Master 
Jack.  We’re  quite  proud  of  it  now,  though  at  the 
beginning  some  folk  were  silly  enough  to  think  it’d 


198 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I . 


bring  infections  and  illnesses  to  the  place.  But  them 
as  has  charge  of  it  know  better  than  that  ;  every  care's 
taken.  And  there's  some  sweet  young  ladies  who  come 
down  turn  about,  one  with  another,  to  help  with  the 
children.  It  s  a  pretty  sight,  I  can  tell  you,  to  see  the 
poor  dears  picking  up  as  they  do  here.  They'll  get 
quite  rosy  before  they  go,  some  of  them,  and  they  poor 
peakit-like  faces  they  come  with." 

“  Peakit-like  "  means  pinched  and  miserable-looking. 
It  is  a  north  country  expression,  mums  says,  for  Mrs. 
Parsley  belonged  to  the  north  when  she  was  young. 

Well,  off  I  set.  I  hadn't  any  adventures — that  was 
for  afterwards.  I  found  my  way  quite  well,  and  I  en¬ 
joyed  the  walk  very  much.  The  church  was  rather 
queer.  It  was  very  old  ;  there  were  strange  tablets  on 
the  walls  and  monuments  in  the  corners,  and  part  of 
the  pavement  was  gravestones — the  side  parts,  not  the 
middle.  But  it  was  new  too.  There  weren’t  any 
pews,  and  it  was  all  open  and  airy.  But  still  it  had 
the  feeling  of  being  very  old.  I  don't  know  much  about 
architecture — it's  one  of  the  things  I  mean  to  learn.  I 
know  pews  are  all  wrong,  still  they're  rather  fun.  At 
one  church  near  Furzely,  where  we  sometimes  go  in 
wet  weather,  there  are  some  square  ones  with  curtains 
all  round,  and  the  two  biggest  pews  have  even  fire¬ 
places  in  them — they're  exactly  like  tiny  rooms.  I 
daresay  there  were  pews  like  that  once  in  Fewforest 
church,  for  it  certainly  is  very  old. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


199  ‘ 

I  stood  in  front  of  the  chancel  some  time  looking  at 
the  high-painted  window  behind  the  altar;  it  was  very 
old.  I  could  see  it  by  the  cracks  here  and  there  where 
you  could  tell  it  had  been  mended.  I  couldn't  help 
thinking  what  lots  and  lots  of  people  must  have  looked 
at  that  window — at  those  very  figures  in  it  and  the  pat¬ 
terns  round  the  edge — since  it  was  first  put  up  there. 
Lots  of  children  as  little  as  me,  who  grew  up  to  be  men 
and  women,  and  then  got  old  and  died.  Isn’t  it  queer 
to  think  how  men  and  women  must  die,  and  that  bits 
of  glass  that  anybody  could  break  with  a  touch  can 
last  on  for  hundreds  of  years  ?  I  daresay  some  of  the 
children  I  was  thinking  of,  the  long,  long  ago  ones, 
kept  on  looking  at  that  window  every  Sunday,  and 
saints’  days  too — for  people  long  ago  went  much 
oftener  to  church  on  saints’  days,  you  know — all 
through  their  lives  ;  for  before  there  were  railways,  or 
even  coaches,  and  travelling  cost  so  dear,  lots  of  coun¬ 
try  people  never  went  farther  away  than  a  few  miles 
from  their  own  village  at  all.  It  is  strange  to  think  of. 

I  thought  to  myself  I’d  like  to  show  Anne  the  church. 
She’d  understand  all  these  feelings  it  gave  me — perhaps 
she’d  make  poetry  about  it.  She  does  make  poetry 
sometimes.  I  was  sure  she’d  like  the  church. 

But  I  was  afraid  of  being  late  for  mother,  or  making 
her  fidgety  that  I  was  going  to  be  late,  so  I  turned 
to  go. 

Just  as  I  was  leaving  the  church,  I  saw  that  there 


200 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


was  some  one  there  beside  myself.  I  hadn't  noticed 
her  before,  but  she  must  have  been  there  all  the  time. 

It  was  a  lady.  She  had  been  kneeling,  but  she  got  up 
and  passed  out  quickly.  I  had  only  time  to  catch  a 
very  little  glimpse  of  her  face;  but  even  in  that  tiny 
glimpse  I  felt  as  if  I  had  seen  it  before.  But  I  couldn’t 
think  where.  She  didn’t  see  me,  I  was  a  little  in 
shadow,  and  she  looked  eager  and  hurried,  as  if  she  , 
had  plenty  to  do,  and  had  only  run  in  to  say  her 
prayers  for  a  minute. 

Where  had  I  seen  that  frowning,  eager  look  in  a  face 
before  ?  It  did  bother  me  so,  but  I  couldn't  remember. 

That  was  a  tiny  bit  of  an  adventure,  after  all.  I 
shouldn’t  have  said  I  hadn’t  any  at  all  that  day. 

I  walked  home  through  the  village — that  end  of  it, 
that’s  to  say,  the  south  end — past  the  doctor’s  house, 
with  a  big  plate  on  the  door,  “  Dr.  Hepland/'  and  the 
one  or  two  everything  shops  (don’t  you  love  i(  every¬ 
thing  ”  shops?  I  do.  I  stood  at  the  door  of  one  of 
them,  to  sniff  the  jolly  mixty-maxty,  regular  country 
shop  smell),  and  the  post  office.  And  then  I  felt  I 
knew  the  place  pretty  tidily  for  a  beginning.  There 
was  lots  of  time.  I’d  seen  what  o’clock  it  was  at  the 
church,  so  I  strolled  along  comfortably.  Some  of  the 
people  stared  at  me  a  bit.  It  was  rather  early  in  the 
season  for  visitors,  you  see.  But  I  didn’t  mind.  I 
just  stood  still,  with  my  hands  behind  me,  and  looked 
well  round  at  the  view  and  everything. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


201 


Behind  the  church  the  ground  rises,  and  up  there, 
there  was  a  house,  standing  by  itself  and  looking 
rather  new.  I  remembered  what  Mrs.  Parsley  had 
said. 

“That  must  be  the  getting-well  Home  for  children,” 
I  thought.  “I'd  like  to  see  through  it.  Perhaps  we 
might  have  some  of  the  children  to  tea  one  day, 
when  we're  at  the  farm.  The  wellest  ones  ;  it  would 
be  rather  fun.  ” 

I'd  a  good  deal  to  tell  the  girls  about  when  we  got 
home,  hadn’t  I  ? 

But,  after  all,  we  didn't  tell  them  very  much  that 
night.  For  both  mums  and  I  were  pretty  tired,  though 
everything  had  been  so  nice.  The  train  going  home 
was  a  much  slower  one.  When  we  got  near  London, 
it  seemed  to  stop  at  every  station.  My  goodness  !  it 
was  tiresome.  And  we  were  hungry  too,  for  we'd  only 
had  luncheon  at  Mossmoor ;  we  had  to  leave  too  soon 
for  tea,  and,  besides,  mother  didn't  want  to  give  Mrs. 
Parsley  so  much  trouble. 

Father  was  going  to  be  late  that  night.  He  wasn't 
coming  in  to  dinner  at  all.  I  didn't  much  mind,  for  it 
was  all  the  nicer  for  me.  Mums  and  I  had  a  sort  of 
picnic  dinner — with  tea,  you  know,  like  what  people 
often  have  when  they  arrive  very  late  after  a  journey. 
And  we  talked  over  about  the  rooms  and  everything 
quietly.  The  girls  were  all  in  bed.  We  just  went  in 
to  see  them.  Hebe  was  the  widest  awake ;  and  she 


202 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


was  so  pleased  to  hear  that  perhaps  there’d  be  room  for 
her  too  at  Mossmoor  if  she  was  a  good  girl,  and  got 
nearly  quite  well  at  Ventnor. 

And  the  next  morning  we  told  all  of  them  every¬ 
thing  about  it.  I  had  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  and 
tell  about  the  railway,  and  how  pretty  the  fields 
looked,  and  what  a  lovely  station  there  was  at  Few- 
forest,  and  the  drive  in  the  pony  phaeton,  and  how 
red  the  fat  boy’s  ears  were  ;  and  then  about  the 
house  and  Mrs.  Parsley,  and  the  rooms,  and  every¬ 
thing. 

I  hadn’t  time  to  tell  about  my  walk  through  the  vil¬ 
lage  till  luncheon — mums’  luncheon,  I  mean,  which  is 
our  dinner.  And  then  I  began  about  the  nice  old  church  ; 
they  were  very  pleased,  Anne  most  of  all.  But  just  as 
I  was  telling  about  the  lady  I’d  seen,  and  how  I 
couldn’t  remember  how  I  seemed  to  know  her  face,  all 
of  a  sudden  it  plumped  into  my  mind.  I  threw  down 
my  knife  and  fork  on  my  plate.  I’m  afraid  they  made 
a  clatter,  for  mums  jumped.  It  was  partly  perhaps 
that  I  called  out  so. 

“  I  know  who  it  was.  It’s  that  girl — Miss  Cross-at- 
first,  you  know,  Anne,”  for  that  was  the  name  we’d 
given  her,  and,  indeed,  I  didn’t  remember  her  real 
name. 

“Miss  ivha /,  Jack  ?”  said  mums;  while  Anne  said 
quietly,  ‘  ‘  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  How  funny  !  ” 

Then  we  explained  what  we  meant. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


203 


“ Judith, ”  said  mother ;  “Judith  Merthyr.  What  a 
very  queer  name  for  her/’  and  she  couldn’t  help  laugh¬ 
ing.  “  It  may  have  been  her,  for  I  know  she  works 
among  poor  children.  Perhaps  she’s  one  of  the  girls 
who  come  down  in  turns  to  the  Convalescent  Home— 
the  ladies  Mrs.  Parsley  told  us  of.  I  must  ask 

Dorothea  Chasserton  :  she’s  sure  to  know.  It  would 

•»  ' 

be  nice  if  Judith  were  there,  they  say  she’s  such  a  very 
kind  girl.  ” 

“Yes,”  I  said,  “  we  found  that  out.  It's  only  the 
way  her  face  is  made — she  can’t  help  it.” 

But  somehow  we  all  forgot  to  ask  Cousin  Dorothea. 
For  one  thing,  there  soon  began  to  be  a  good  deal  of 
bustle  getting  ready  to  go  away,  for  with  this  horrid 
whooping-cough  nurse  and  Rowley  had  been  so  extra 
busy  that  there  was  a  lot  of  sewing  to  do.  Not  for  me, 
of  course.  My  sailor-suits  all  come  from  the  man  at 
Devonport,  and,  except  for  darning  my  stockings,  I 
don’t  think  I  give  much  mending  to  do.  But  of  course 
girls  are  always  wanting  things  made  for  them  at 
home.  Then  to  add  to  ail  the  fuss,  gran  took  it  into 
his  head  to  come  back  all  of  a  sudden.  Mother  hadn’t 
counted  on  his  coming  at  all  till  after  she’d  got  back 
from  Ventnor  with  Hebe,  and  by  then  she  thought 
if  Ilebe  was  well  enough  to  be  with  the  rest  of  us  at 
Mossmoor,  she  herself  would  be  free  to  devote  herself  to 
gran.  She  wanted  to  be  extra  good  to  him,  you  see,  to 
make  up  for  the  worry  about  the  diamond  ornament. 


204 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


But  gran's  often  rather  changeable ;  and  of  course, 
as  mums  always  says,  “It's  his  own  house  :  who  has  a 
better  right  to  come  to  it  whenever  it  suits  him  ?  ” 

Only  it  was  rather  inconvenient,  and  mother  looked 
pretty  blank  the  morning  she  got  the  letter.  He 
wasn’t  going  to  stay  long — he  had  some  other  visits  to 
pay  before  he  settled  down  for  his  usual  two  months 
or  so  of  the  season  in  town.  He  would  only  stay 
about  ten  days. 

6 1  Just  till  we  are  all  leaving,"  said  poor  mums. 
w  And  I  know  he  will  want  me  all  day, — and  I'd  gladly 
be  with  him  all  day — but  I  am  so  busy." 

“So  am  I,”  said  father,  looking  rather  flabbergasted 
himself.  “But  we  must  just  do  the  best  we  can, 
Valeria.  You  tell  him  frankly  that  you  are  and  must 
be  very  busy,  and  I  will  tell  him  that  my  new  book  is 
announced,  and  yet  I  have  a  good  deal  to  do  to  it  still. * 

“  Yes,"  sighed  mums,  “I  must  do  my  best.  But  it 
is  a  pity.  He  says  he  is  anxious  to  see  the  children 
for  himself — to  make  sure  they  are  coming  round  sat¬ 
isfactorily.  Poor  gran,  and  he  doesn't  say  one  word 
about  that  unlucky  brooch.  He  has  been  very  good 
about  it." 

“  Perhaps  he  thinks  every  one  concerned  has  been 
sufficiently  punished  about  it,"  said  father. 

And  Anne,  who  was  down  at  breakfast  with  us  grew 
very  red,  and  looked  down  at  her  plate. 

Well,  gran  came,  and  I  think  mums  managed  beauts 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


205 


fully,  though  she  must  have  been  pretty  tired.  We 
rather  went  to  the  wall.  That's  to  say  /  did,  for  there 
was  an  end  of  all  my  nice  quiet  times  with  mums — 
afternoon  teas  in  the  little  drawing-room,  and  driving 
out  with  her  to  shop.  The  doctor  ordered  drives  for 
the  girls  now — for  Anne,  and  Serena,  and  Maud,  that's 
to  say, — so  they  took  turns  of  it  in  the  victoria  every 
fine  afternoon.  I  didn’t  envy  them  the  days  gran  went 
too,  for  if  there’s  one  thing  I  hate  it’s  the  back  seat  of  a 
victoria,  and  it  gives  such  a  messy  look  to  the  turn* 
out,  I  think. 

Those  days  I  was  a  good  deal  with  Hebe,  reading 
to  her  in  the  afternoons,  and  sitting  with  her  to  make 
up  for  mums  being  so  little  with  her.  Gran  used  to 
come  sometimes,  and  I  had  to  go  on  reading  aloud 
just  the  same,  with  him  listening.  I  didn’t  like  it  at 
all  - 

But  he  was  very  kind.  He  never  went  out  scarcely 
without  bringing  in  some  present  for  some  of  us, 
especially  Hebe — either  fruit,  or  cakes,  not  too  rich, 
but  very  good,  or  new  story-books,  or  some  kind  of 
puzzle  or  game.  He  was  really  very  jolly  that  time. 

We  were  awfully  pleased  though  when  the  day  came 
at  last  for  us  all  to  start.  We  were  to  go  first — the 
three  girls,  and  nurse,  and  I, — and  mums,  and  Hebe, 
and  Rowley  were  to  go  down  to  Ventnor  the  next  day. 
Father  was  to  take  them,  for  poor  Hebe  could  scarcely 
walk  yet.  Gran  went  off  on  his  visit  the  afternoon  of 


206 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


our  day.  He  said  he  couldn't  leave  till  he  had  seen  us 
off,  and  he  actually  came  to  the  station  with  us — he 
and  his  man.  Fancy  that ! 

And  it  was  rather  lucky  for  us,  for  he  would  have  us 
travel  first-class,  and  mums  had  only  meant  us  to  go 
second.  I  must  say  first  is  ever  so  much  nicer,  and 
it's  rubbish  of  people  to  say  they  like  second  better. 
It's  only  silly  people,  who  are  ashamed  to  say  they  do 
it  for  saving  reasons.  I  can't  understand  that  sort  of 
being  ashamed. 

Then  gran  tipped  the  guard,  so  that  he  came  at  every 
station  to  ask  if  we  wanted  anything.  We  never  did, 
but  it  felt  rather  grand.  Altogether,  the  journey  was 
very  nice,  and  we  hadn't  time  to  feel  very  sad  at  leav¬ 
ing  dear  mums  and  Hebe,  though  all  the  way  I  kept 
thinking  of  my  last  going  there  with  mother. 

It  was  a  fine  day,  though  not  so  bright  as  the  other 
time.  When  we  got  to  Fewforest  there  was  a  big  fly 
waiting  for  us,  and  a  spring  cart  from  the  farm  for  the 
luggage.  And  no  sooner  did  Serry  catch  sight  of  it 
than  she  tugged  my  arm,  and  said  quite  loud — 

“  Is  that  the  red-eared  boy,  Jack  ?  " 

She  is  so  silly,  I  wonder  he  didn't  hear  her. 

It  was  he,  sure  enough,  as  red  as  ever,  and  grinning 
now  as  well,  like  an  old  acquaintance.  The  driver  of 

the  fly,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  rather  grumpy  man.  I 

• 

had  been  thinking  of  asking  nurse  to  let  me  go  outside, 
but  when  I  saw  his  face  I  didn't.  No  chance  of  him 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


207 


Jetting  me  drive  part  of  the  way,  even  though  the  horse 
was  about  a  hundred  years  old,  and  went  jog-jogging 
along  as  if  it  meant  to  take  a  month  to  get  to  Moss- 
moor.  I  can  generally  tell  something  about  people 
by  the  look  of  their  faces. 

So  we  all  squashed  inside — nurse  and  us  four.  It 
wasn't  a  very  great  squash,  for  the  fly  was  a  regular 
old-fashioned  roomy  one.  Once  upon  a  time  I  dare¬ 
say  it  had  been  some  lady's  grand  “  coach"  in  which 
she  drove  about  paying  all  her  visits.  I  happened  to 
say  this  to  Anne,  and  she  liked  the  idea.  She  said  she 
thought  she  would  write  a  story,  and  call  it  The  His - 
tory  of  a  Chariot.  I  don't  know  if  she  ever  has. 

When  we  got  toMossmoor  the  stupid  coachman  was 
going  to  drive  us  into  the  stable-yard,  which  would 
quite  have  stopped  the  niceness  of  our  first  arriving, 
especially  as  I  caught  sight  of  dear  old  Mrs.  Parsley 
standing  at  the  front  door  with  her  best  cap  on,  all  in 
a  flutter  to  welcome  us.  (I  didn’t  call  her  “dear  old 
Mrs.  Parsley”  to  myself  then:  it's  since  I've  got  to 
know  her.  And  I  couldn’t  have  told  it  was  her  best 
cap  ;  it  wasn't  for  some  time  that  we  got  tc  understand 
her  caps.  They  were  like  degrees  of  comparison,  both 
upwards  and  downwards,  for  she  had  always  about 
six  going  at  a  time.)  So  I  holloaed  out  to  the  driver 
to  stop  at  the  little  gate,  and  he  did,  though  he  growled 
and  grumbled.  He  is  so  surly ;  his  name’s  Griffin, 
and  he  and  the  fly  belong  to  the  “Yule  Log  ”  at  Few- 


208  THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 

forest,  North  end.  There’s  no  inn  at  South  end. 
was  only  just  in  time,  for  you  can’t  turn,  farther  up 
the  lane,  unless  you  drive  on  a  bit,  or  turn  in  the  stable- 
yard.  You  see  it  was  a  good  thing  for  the  girls  that 
I'd  been  there  before,  and  knew  all  the  ins  and  outs  of 
the  place,  wasn’t  it  ? 

It  was  fun  showing  them  the  rooms  and  everything. 
And  even  though  I  had  described  them  as  particularly 
as  I  could,  they  all  declared — nurse  too — that  I  hadn’t 
made  them  out  half  nice  enough.  I  was  glad  of  that 

We  had  plenty  of  time  to  poke  about,  because  the 
luggage  hadn't  yet  come.  And  Mrs.  Parsley  had  tea 
set  out  all  ready;  she  wasn’t  one  of  those  horrid  land¬ 
ladies  who  won’t  give  anything  at  the  first  start  for 

* 

fear  they  should  possibly  not  be  paid  back  for  it.  I’m 
sure  she  never  charged  anything  for  the  cake  she’d 
made  us,  and  the  jam  and  honey,  that  first  night, 
tnough  there  was  precious  little  over  of  any  of  them 
when  we  d  finished. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


209 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  LONG-AGO  ADVENTURE. 

We  were  very  busy  and  happy  the  next  morning 
getting  all  our  things  settled,  and  making  the  summer 
kitchen  look  as  pretty  as  we  could.  We  had  brought 
one  or  two  folding-chairs  and  some  rugs  and  table- 
covers  to  brighten  it  up,  and  it  did  look  very  nice 
indeed. 

It  was  a  good  thing  we  were  taken  up  that  way, 
for — wasn't  it  provoking? — that  first  day  it  took  it 
into  its  head  to  rain  !  All  the  morning  at  least, 
though  it  cleared  up  about  our  dinner-time.  But  it 
was  very  tiresome,  for  though  it  was  quite  mild,  it 
was  of  course  damp  under  foot,  and  nurse  wouldn't 
hear  of  us  going  a  nice  scrambly  walk  as  we  had 
planned.  And  she  would  come  with  us.  I  daresay 
she  was  right,  but  it  was  a  bore. 

“  Which  way  shall  we  go,  Jack  ?  "  said  Anne,  when 
we  were  all  ready  to  start  and  nurse  had  satisfied  her¬ 
self  that  the  girls  had  all  got  their  thickest  boots  on, 
and  waterproofs  and  umbrellas  in  case  it  came  on  to 
rain  again. 

Nurse  had  been  consulting  Mrs.  Parsley,  I'm  sure. 

*4 


210 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


“  We  must  keep  to  the  high-road/'  she  said.  “It 
dries  up  very  quickly  as  it's  a  sandy  soil." 

“Anne  wasn't  asking  you,  nurse,"  said  Serry  rather 
pertly.  “She  was  asking  Jack. " 

“All  the  same,  Miss  Serena,  I  must  do  my  duty/' 
said  nurse.  “  I  am  in  charge  of  you,  and  your 
mamma  wouldn’t  be  pleased  it  I  let  you  all  go  stravag- 
ing  over  the  wet  fields  to  get  bad  colds  and  pleurisys 
and  newmens,  and  what  not." 

“Newmens,"  said  Anne,  “  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

But  nurse  was  put  out,  and  wouldn't  explain.  It 
wasn't  till  some  time  after  that  we  found  out  she 
meant  that  bad  kind  of  cold  on  your  chest  that  cows 
have  so  often,  as  well  as  people. 

I  tried  to  smooth  nurse  down,  and  I  frowned  at  Serry, 
who  was  just  in  a  humor  to  go  on  setting  her  up. 

It  was  a  pity  to  start  so  grumpily  on  our  first  walk, 
but  things  never  do  go  quite  right  for  long  in  this 
world,  do  they  ? 

“I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do,"  I  said  ;  “we  can 
see  the  church.  It’s  just  a  nice  little  walk  by  the  road 
from  here — you'd  like  that,  wouldn’t  you,  Anne  ?  " 

“Yes,"  said  Anne,  “  I  like  old  churches." 

“So  do  I,"  said  Maud. 

“  Are  there  places  you  could  hide  in,  in  this 
church,"  said  Serry,  “like  in  the  old  church  at  Furzely  ? 
Whenever  I  go  there  I  can't  help  thinking  what  lovely 
hide-and-seek  we  might  have  there." 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


211 


“ Miss  Serry,”  said  nurse,  quite  shocked,  “I  think 
you  should  have  different  ideas  from  that  in  your 
mind  when  you  go  to  church/’ 

And  of  course  we  all  thought  so  too.  But  it  isn’t 
much  use  taking  up  anything  Serry  says,  seriously. 
She  is  so  scatter-brained. 

We  had  a  nice  enough  walk  after  all.  The  road  was 
beginning  to  dry  up,  except  at  the  side  next  the  wood 
where  the  trees  dripped  on  to  it,  for  the  trees  were 
really  soaking.  And  we  soon  got  nurse  into  a  good 
humor  again  ;  she’s  never  cross  for  long.  We  made 
plans  about  all  the  nice  things  we’d  do,  if  only  the 
weather  would  be  really  fine — tea  in  the  woods  and 
things  like  that,  you  know. 

“But  it’s  early  in  the  season  still,  my  dears,  you 
must  remember,”  said  nurse.  “It’s  not  often  you  can 
plan  for  much  out-of-doors  before  June  is  near  its 
the  end.” 

“And  then  July  is  always  a  rainy  month,  people 
say,”  said  Anne.  “I  do  think  England’s  horrid  for 
weather  being  so  uncertain.  ” 

“Well,  indeed,”  said  nurse,  fi  take  it  all  in  all,  I 
think  I’d  rather  have  our  climate  up  in  the  north.  It’s 
cold,  to  be  sure,  a  great  part  of  the  year,  but  the  sum¬ 
mer  is  summer  while  it  lasts.  And  then  you  know 
where  you  are  ;  in  winter  you  can  hap  yourselves  up 
and  make  the  best  of  it,  while  here  in  the  south  it 
seems  to  me  that  every  day  you  have  to  think  if  it’s 


212 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


warm  or  cold,  or  what  it  is,  all  the  year  round,  summer 
and  winter  alike.” 

I  forget  if  I  told  you  that  nurse  is  Scotch.  She  hasn’t 
really  been  in  Scotland  since  she  was  quite  little,  but 
she’s  very  proud  of  it,  and  she’s  very  fond  of  using 
funny  words,  like  “  stravaging.  ” 

“  They  say  the  air  here  is  like  Scotland,”  I  said,  “  so 
fresh  and  moory.  So  you  should  like  it,  nurse.  And 
you  know  there’s  a  place  here  that  they  send  little  ill 
children  to  from  London  ;  I  can  show  you  the  house, 
we  can  see  it  up  above  when  we  get  to  the  church.” 

And,  funnily  enough,  just  as  we  got  close  to  the 
village  we  came  upon  a  little  party  of  the  convalescent 
children  going  a  walk.  They  were  all  dressed  alike — 
the  girls  in  brown  frocks  and  red  cloaks  and  brown 
hats,  and  the  boys  in  some  sort  of  corduroy.  And 
there  was  a  sort  of  servanty  looking  person  with  them, 
and  also  a  lady  ;  just  for  half  a  moment  I  wondered  if 
it  was  Miss  Cross-at-first,  but  it  wasn’t.  This  one  was 
quite  different ;  she  was  short  and  round-faced,  and 
extremely  good-natured  looking.  She  smiled  at  us  as 
she  passed  us.  And  the  children  all  looked  very 
happy. 

“You  see  they’ve  come  a  walk  along  the  wood  like 
us,”  said  Maud,  “  because  I  daresay  it’s  wet  in  their 
garden  too.” 

“I’d  like  to  go  to  see  them  very  much,”  said  Anne. 
“  What  a  pity  it  isn’t  Miss  Cross-at-first  with  them  f 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L  213 

And  mums  never  remembered  to  write  to  Cousin  Doro¬ 
thea  to  ask  if  it  could  have  been  her  you  saw  in  the 
church  that  day.” 

“  Fm  certain  it  was,”  I  said.  “  I  don't  need  Cousin 
Dorothea  or  anybody  to  say  so.  But  I’d  like  to  know 
if  she’s  gone  away  or  if  she's  coming  back  again. 
They  say  girls — ladies,  I  mean — take  it  in  turns  to 
come  and  look  after  the  children.” 

“ Perhaps  Mrs.  Parsley  could  find  out  for  us,”  said 
Anne.  “  You  know,  nurse,  we  want  to  have  some  of 
the  children  at  tea  at  the  farm  before  we  go.  Mother 
said  she  daresayed  we  might.  ” 

“  It's  time  enough,  Miss  Anne,  to  talk  about  what 
you’ll  do  before  you  go,  seeing  as  you're  scarcely 
come,”  said  nurse,  rather  grumpily.  She's  not  very 
fond  of  things  to  do  with  poor  children  ;  she's  always 
afraid  of  our  catching  illnesses.  “And  it  would  be  no 
kindness  to  ask  any  other  children  to  come  to  see  you 
at  present.  As  likely  as  not  they’d  be  getting  the 
whooping  cough.” 

We  hadn’t  thought  of  that ;  it  was  rather  a  dis¬ 
appointment. 

We  had  got  to  the  church  by  now,  and  we  all  went 
m.  It  didn’t  look  quite  so  pretty  as  the  day  I  had 
seen  it  first,  for  there  was  no  sunshine  coming  in 
through  the  colored  windows  and  lighting  up  the  queer 
old  tablets  and  figures  here  and  there.  Still  it  looked 
very  nice,  and  Anne  and  Maud  admired  it  very  much. 


214 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


So  did  Serry,  only  she  said  she’d  have  liked  it  better 
with  high  pews  and  curtains  to  draw  round  the  big 
square  ones.  Just  fancy  that ! 

“You  couldvit  think  it  was  nicer  like  that,”  I  said. 

“Not  prettier,  but  there  must  have  been  such  jolly 
corners  and  hiding-places,”  said  Serena.  Her  head 
was  full  of  hiding.  “  There’d  be  nowhere  to  hide  in  this 
church.  You’d  be  seen  in  a  minute.” 

“  Nobody  wants  to  hide  in  church,”  I  said;  “that’s 
not  what  people  come  for.” 

“They  might  though,”  said  Serena  ;  “that’s  to  say, 
supposing  any  one  got  locked  up  in  a  church  all  night, 
they’d  like  to  have  some  comfortable  corner  to  creep 
into  where  nobody  could  get  at  them.” 

“  But  there’d  be  nobody  to  get  at*  them,”  said  Anne. 
“I  don’t  say  I’d  like  at  all  to  be  shut  up  in  a  church 
all  night ;  still,  the  best  of  it  would  be  you’d  know  you 
were  safe  from  anybody.” 

Serry  didn’t  seem  convinced. 

“I  don’t  know,”  she  said.  “ There  might  be— well, 
bats  and  owls  and  things  like  that,  and  then  there’d  be 
feelings .  You’d  be  sure  to  fancy  there  were  people  or 
things  there,  and  it  wouldn’t  be  half  so  frightening  if  you 
could  get  into  a  pew  with  a  carpet,  and  make  a  bed  of 
the  cushions  and  hassocks.” 

“Eh,”  said  nurse  all  of  a  sudden,  “you  put  me  in 
mind,  Miss  Serry,  of  an  old  story  my  mother  told  me 
when  I  was  a  child.  ” 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


215 


<<  Oh,  do  tell  it  us,”  cried  Maud. 

But  nurse  said  we  must  wait,  of  course,  till  we  were 
out  of  the  church.  Nurse  has  quite  proper  feelings 
about  churches,  though,  when  she  was  little,  she  be¬ 
longed  to  the  Scotch  kirk,  you  know,  which  is  different. 
She  said  she'd  tell  us  the  story  either  on  the  way  home 
or  after  tea  when  we  were  all  sitting  together  in  our 
kitchen-parlor,  for  it  was  too  damp  an  evening  for  us 
to  go  out  again. 

And  at  first  we  thought  we'd  have  the  story  on  the 
way  home,  but  then  we  settled  we'd  wait  till  the  even¬ 
ing.  For  there  were  plenty  of  things  to  amuse  us  go¬ 
ing  home  ;  I  had  to  show  them  the  post-office  and  the 
shops — we  went  farther  down  the  village  on  purpose, 
— and  I  don't  think  stories  are  ever  quite  so  nice  when 
people  are  ^walking  as  when  they're  sitting  still. 

We  all  felt  quite  hungry  when  we  got  back  to  the 
farm,  and  we  were  very  glad  that  it  was  nearly  tea- 
time.  Nurse  was  very  pleased,  for  Anne  and  Maud 
had  never  got  back  their  good  appetites  since  they'd 
been  ill,  though  Serry  had  never  lost  hers  all  through 
- — I  don't  much  think  anything  would  make  Serry  lose 
her  good  appetite, — and  of  course  I’d  kept  all  right. 

After  tea  we  helped  nurse  to  clear  away.  We  al¬ 
ways  did  that  at  Mossmoor,  for  you  see  mums  had 
promised  Mrs.  Parsley  that  We  should  give  as  little 
trouble  as  possible, — it  wasn't  as  if  she  had  been  a 
lodging-house  keeper,  and  she  had  only  one  servant 


216 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


who  was  rather  rough  and  clumsy.  We  liked  doing  it 
too,  and  dear  Mrs.  Parsley  was  even  better  than  her 
word  about  making  us  as  comfortable  as  she  possibly 
could.  There  was  scarcely  a  day  that  she  didn’t  do 
something  “  extra  ”  to  please  us.  This  very  evening 
she  had  made  us  some  lovely  kind  of  scones  for  tea. 
She  said  they  were  a  kind  she  had  learnt  to  make  up 
in  the  north,  and  she  “  wanted  to  make  us  feel  at  home  ; 
it  must  be  a  bit  lonely  just  at  first,  and  such  a  wet  day 
to  begin.  ” 

Wasn't  it  sweet  of  her  ? 

Well,  as  I  said,  we  did  justice  to  the  scones,  and 
when  tea  was  over  and  all  nicely  tidied  up,  we  brought 
our  chairs  near  the  fire.  For  it  was  chilly  after  the 
rain,  and  we  were  glad  of  a  fire.  And  nurse  got  out 
her  knitting — nurse  has  always  got  socks  for  me  or 
stockings  for  the  girls  on  hand, — and  we  began  to  feel 
very  jolly.  We  had  felt  a  very  little  lonely,  perhaps 
almost  an  atom  homesick,  I  think,  with  the  dull  morn¬ 
ing  and  the  strangeness  and  the  not  having  father  and 
mother  and  Hebe,  even  though  everything  was  so 
nice. 

‘‘Now  for  your  story,  nurse,”  said  I.  “  I  hope  it’s 
been  growing  into  a  very  big  one  all  this  time  we’ve 
been  waiting  for  it.” 

“No,  indeed,  Master  Jack,”  said  nurse,  “it’s  nothing 
of  the  kind.  It’s  scarce  to  be  called  a  story  at  all,  and 
but  little  worth  listening  to.” 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


217 


But  we  made  her  tell  it  all  the  same.  I’m  not  going 
to  try  to  write  it  in  Scotch  words,  for  I  don't  know 
Scotch  a  bit,  and  I’m  not  sure  that  nurse  knows  much 
either,  as  she’s  been  in  England  ever  since  she  was  very 
young.  So  I’ll  just  tell  it  straight  off;  anyway  it’ll  be 
the  sense  of  what  she  said,  though  she  did  put  in  some 
extra  Scotch  words.  I  think  she’s  rather  proud  when 
we  have  to  ask  her  to  explain  them. 

Nurse’s  Story. 

“It  was  my  mother  that  told  it  me,”  said  nurse,  “for 
it  happened  to  herself  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  She 
lived  at  home  with  her  father  and  mother  and  brothers 
in  a  good-sized  cottage  on  the  Muirness  estate,  for  my 
grandfather  was  one  of  the  head  men  on  the  place, 
which  belonged  to  old  Sir  Patrick  Muir.  They  were  a 
good  way — five  miles  or  so — from  even  a  village,  and 
I  daresay  double  as  far  from  the  nearest  town,  which 
was  only  a  small  one.  But  in  those  days  people  were 
content  with  stay-at-home  lives,  and  they  didn’t  feel 
dull  or  lonely  even  in  very  out-of-the-way  places.  It 
is  a  good  while  ago  since  my  mother  was  a  child.  She 
was  not  young  when  she  married,  and  she  was  nearly 
forty  when  I  was  born,  and  I’m  getting  on  for  that  my¬ 
self  now.  My  grandmother  had  been  rather  above  my 
grandfather,  for  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  well-to-do 
man  who  farmed  his  own  land.  When  my  mother 


218 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


was  a  child  these  old  folk  were  still  living,  and  their 
little  place  was  very  near  Muirness  ;  indeed  I  believe 
it  was  bought  several  years  ago  by  Sir  Herbert,  old  Sir 
Patrick's  grandson,  and  now  belongs  to  the  big  estate. 

“My  mother  was  a  great  favorite  with  her  grand¬ 
father  and  grandmother,  for  she  was  the  only  grand¬ 
daughter,  all  the  others  being  boys.  She  used  often  to 
go  over  to  Oldbiggins  Farm  to  stay  for  a  day  or  two  ; 
and  her  grandmother  was  very  fond  of  having  her  from 
a  Saturday  to  a  Monday  to  take  her  to  church  with  them 
on  Sunday,  and  send  her  back  early  on  Monday  morn¬ 
ing  in  time  to  go  to  school.  My  mother  didn’t  care  for 
these  visits  as  much  as  for  week-day  ones,  for  her  grand¬ 
mother  used  to  take  her  to  church  on  Sunday  morning 
and  keep  her  there  straight  on  through  the  afternoon 
service  too,  which  was  really  too  much  for  a  child. 
Her  mother  was  not  so  strict,  and  understood  better 
about  children’s  feelings  ;  and  she  used  always  to  let 
mother  and  her  brothers  go  home  after  the  morning 
service,  even  if  she  stayed  on  for  the  afternoon  herself. 
It  was  five  miles  away,  so  it  was  a  long  walk,  but  the 
old  people  used  to  drive  in  a  cart  there  and  back  ;  for 
if  they  hadn’t  done  so,  they  wouldn’t  have  been  able 
to  go  to  church  at  all. 

“  One  Saturday  afternoon — it  was  late  in  the  autumn 
— mother's  grandmother  sent  over  to  sav  that  she 
wanted  Maggie,  that  was  mother’s  name,  to  come  to 
stay  till  Monday,  and  she  should  drive  to  church  and 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


21? 


back  with  her  on  the  Sunday — the  ‘Sabbath-day’  wai 
what  they  called  it  always.  Maggie  didn’t  want  much 
to  go,  but  her  mother  didn’t  like  to  refuse ;  the  old 
people  were  kind,  and  it  wouldn’t  do  to  vex  them.  So 
the  child  was  sent  off.  She  was  about  eight  years  old. 

“  6  Mayn’t  I  come  home  with  my  brothers  after  the 
morning  church  is  done  ?  ’  she  said.  But  her  mother 
shook  her  head.  For  some  reason  they  were  not  go¬ 
ing  till  the  afternoon.  I  think  somebody  was  ill. 

“  ‘  If  I  can  get  in  the  afternoon,  I’ll  look  out  for  you, 
and  you  can  come  home  with  me  then,  dearie/  she 
said.  - ‘  Tell  your  grandmother  I’d  like  to  have  you 
back  to-morrow  evening  if  she  doesn’t  mind.’ 

“  The  Sunday  evenings  at  Oldbiggins  were  rather 
hard  upon  a  child  too,  for,  on  the  top  of  the  two  long 
services,  the  old  grandfather  always  read  out  a  very 
long  sermon,  difficult  for  any  one  to  understand,  as  hcs 
read  very  feebly,  and  the  words  were  often  puzzling. 

“  So  with  the  hope  of  getting  home  again  before  the 
Sunday  evening,  little  Maggie  started  She  was  * 
gentle,  quiet  child,  and  the  old  people  had  no  idea  but 
that  she  was  quite  happy  and  liked  the  long  hours  in 
church  as  much  as  they  did.  She  went  to  church  alone 
with  her  grandmother  and  the  farmman  who  drove  the 
cart,  and  they  took  with  them  a  packet  of  bread-and- 
butter,  or  bread-and-jam  maybe — what  was  called  ‘  a 
piece  ’ — to  eat  outside  the  church  between  the  two  ser¬ 
vices.  There  was  only  an  hour  between  them.  Maggie 


220 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


looked  out  for  her  own  people  before  she  and  her  grand¬ 
mother  went  back  into  the  church  again,  but  they  must 
have  been  a  little  late,  and  the  old  lady  liked  to  be  in 
her  place  in  good  time,  so  the  child  did  not  see  them. 
But  she  thought  to  herself  she'd  be  sure  to  meet  them 
after  church,  and  this  thought  kept  her  quiet,  though 
she  couldn’t  possibly  get  a  glimpse  of  them  from  her 
corner  of  the  high  pew,  even  if  she  had  dared  to  look 
about.  She  must  have  been  very  tired,  and  she  had 
cried  in  bed  the  night  before,  and  I  daresay  the  cold 
air  outside  made  it  feel  warm  in  the  church,  anyway 
this  was  what  happened.  The  poor  little  thing  fell  fast 
asleep.  And  her  grandmother,  who  was  very  blind 
except  with  her  glasses  on — and  she  always  took  them 
off  and  put  them  away  when  the  last  psalm  had  been 
sung — went  quietly  out  of  the  pew  without  a  notion 
but  that  the  child  was  beside  her. 

“  When  Maggie  woke  it  was  quite  dark,  the  church 
had  been  shut  up  ever  so  long  ;  there  was  no  evening 
service.  At  first  she  thought  she  was  in  bed,  and  that 
the  clothes  had  tumbled  off  her,  then  feeling  about, 
she  found  she  had  her  frock  and  cape  and  bonnet  on, 
and  everything  near  her  was  hard  and  cold,  not  like 
bed  at  all.  And  by  bits  it  all  came  back  to  her  mind — 
her  last  waking  thoughts  in  church,  and  how  she  was 
hoping  to  see  her  mother, — and  she  began  to  take  in 
where  she  was.  I’ve  always  thought  it  was  really 
dreadful  for  her,  and  she  must  have  been  a  brave. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


221 


sensible  child — I  know  she  grew  up  a  brave,  sensible 

/ 

woman.  For,  though  she  couldn’t  help  crying  at  first 
with  loneliness  and  cold  and  the  queer  sort  of  fear,  she 
soon  settled  to  do  the  best  she  could.  There  was  some 
moonlight  coming  in  at  one  window,  though  not  much, 
but  enough  to  make  her  see  where  the  pulpit  was,  and 
up  into  the  pulpit  Maggie  climbed,  because  she  had  an 
idea  she’d  be  safer  there  ;  and  it  certainly  was  warmer, 
for  it  was  a  sort  of  little  box  with  a  door  to  it,  and 
there  were  one  or  two  stools  and  cushions  and  some  red 
cloth  hanging  round  the  top,  which  Miss  Maggie  ven¬ 
tured  to  pull  down  and  wrap  round  her.  And  there 
she  composed  herself  to  sleep,  and  sleep  she  did,  in 
spite  of  her  loneliness  and  hunger — oh,  I  forgot  to  say 
she  found  a  wee  bit  of  her  ‘  piece  9  still  in  her  pocket, — 
till  the  sunshine  woke  her  up  the  next  morning,  for 
luckily  it  was  a  bright  mild  day.  Then  down  she  came, 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  aisles  as  fast  as  she  dared, 
considering  it  was  a  church,  to  get  her  cramped  legs 
warm  again,  and  just  as  she  was  thinking  what  she  was 
to  do  to  get  out,  the  door  opened,  to  her  delight,  and 
in  came  the  man  who  had  care  of  the  church — what 
we  call  a  verger — followed  by  the  old  body  who  cleaned 
and  swept  it. 

“They  were  astonished,  as  you  can  fancy;  such  a 
thing  had  never  happened  before  within  the  memory 
of  man. 

“  Old  Peter  took  her  off  with  him  to  his  cottage,  and 


222 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


his  wife  gave  her  some  hot  breakfast,  and  then  he  bor¬ 
rowed  a  cart  and  drove  Maggie  home — straight  home 
to  Muirness,  not  to  Oldbiggins.  It  was  home  Maggie 
wanted  to  go,  you  may  be  sure,  and  when  Peter  heard 
the  story,  he  declared  her  granny  deserved  a  good 
fright  for  not  looking  after  her  better. 

“  ‘P’raps  she  thought  I’d  run  off  to  mother  and  the 
boys/  said  Maggie. 

“And  that  was  just  what  it  turned  out  to  be. 

“The  old  lady,  instead  of  being  frightened,  was  very 
angry.  She  had  stayed  talking  to  some  friend  at  the 
church  door,  and  somehow  her  daughter  and  the  boys 
had  fancied  she  and  Maggie  had  driven  off,  not  seeing 
them  about.  Maggie’s  mother  was  in  a  hurry  to  get 
home  to  the  one  that  was  ill,  and  just  thought  the  little 
girl  had  gone  back  quietly  with  her  grandmother  till 
the  next  morning.  And  when  the  granny  had  missed 
the  child,  she  thought  Maggie  had  run  off  to  her 
mother — for  some  one  called  out  that  Mistress  Gray 
and  her  children  had  driven  off, — and  was  too  offended 
to  send  to  Muirness  to  ask ! 

“  And  at  home  they  hadn’t  missed  her  of  course; 
So,  after  all,  Maggie  wasn’t  made  much  of  a  heroine 
of,  for  all  she’d  been  so  brave  and  sensible. 

“But  I’m  sure  she  never  minded  that,  so  glad  was 
she  to  be  in  her  own  dear  home  again,  safe  and  sound, 
And  you  may  be  sure  her  mother  petted  her  enough  to 
make  up  all  she  could  for  the  poor  little  thing’s  dis» 


THE  GIRLS  ANL  L 


223 


agreeable  adventure.  It  was  talked  of  through  the 
country-side  for  many  a  day  after  that.  Maybe  it  is 
still.  ” 

“And  I  hope  they  never  let  her  go  back  to  that 
horrid  old  grandmother  again,  ”  said  Anne. 

“Nay,  my  dear,  she  wasn’t  so  bad  as  that  But  old 
people  have  their  ways.  ” 

“I  think  our  gran  is  much  nicer  than  that,”  said 
Maud  in  her  clear  little  voice. 

And  I’m  sure  we  all  agreed  with  her. 

But  we  all  thanked  nurse  very  nicely  for  telling  xtB 
the  story,  which  was  really  very  interesting. 

And  it  gave  us  a  good  deal  to  talk  about 


IU£  GIRLS  AJSD  L 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MISCHIEF  IN  THE  AIR* 

Yes,  it  gave  us  a  good  deal  to  talk  about.  Stories 
that  do  that  are  much  the  nicest ;  they  seem  to  make 
themselves  over,  and  over,  and  to  last  so  ldtig.  We 
talked  for  some  days  after  that,  about  what  we’d  each 
of  us  do  it  we  were  locked  up  all  night  alone  in  a  church, 
and  we  made  ever  so  many  plans.  And  the  next  Sun¬ 
day — that  was  our  first  one  at  Mossmoor, — when  we 
all  came  home  from  church  and  were  at  dinner,  Serena 
astonished  us  very  much,  when  nurse  said  she’d  been 
a  very  good  girl,  for  she’s  generally  a  dreadful  fidget,  by 
saying  quite  coolly — 

“Oh,  I  didn't  mind  the  sermon  a  bit  to-day,  though 
it  was  very  long.  For  I  was  settling  all  the  time  what 
I’d  do  if  I  was  like  Maggie  in  that  church.  And  I  know 
quite  well,  only  I  won’t  tell  any  of  you.  So  if  ever  I'm 
lost  on  a  Sunday  you’ll  have  a  nice  hunt.” 

She  tossed  back  her  head  the  way  she  does  when  she 
means  to  be  aggravating. 

“You  silly  girl,”  said  Maud  in  her  superior  way, 
“you  couldn’t  hide  in  that  church  not  to  be  found 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


225 


You’re  so  boasty.  And  if  you  did,  there’d  be  no  fun  in 
it.  ” 

Serry  gave  another  toss,  and  a  particular  sort  of  a 
smile.  That  smile  meant  mischief. 

“  Miss  Serena’s  certainly  very  clever  at  hiding  pi aces/"’ 
said  nurse.  “  But  there  couldn’t  be  very  much  clever¬ 
ness  wanted  to  hide  in  a  church  ;  it’s  not  like  finding 
out  queer  places  you’d  never  think  of  in  a  house. 
Now,  I  daresay,  Miss  Serry,  if  it  came  a  very  wet  day 
again  while  we’re  here  and  Mrs.  Parsley  let  you  have 
a  good  game,  as  I’ve  no  doubt  she  would,  I  daresay 
you’d  keep  us  hunting  like  anything.” 

“I  daresay  I  could,”  said  Serry. 

But  I  knew  by  her  voice  that  she  knew  that  nurse 
was  speaking  that  way  on  purpose  to  put  hiding  in  the 
church  out  of  her  head.  For,  as  I’ve  said,  Serry’s  very 
queer  ;  for  all  she’s  so  changeable  and  flighty,  there 
are  times  that  if  she  takes  up  a  thing,  nothing  will 
get  it  from  her — make  her  drop  it,  I  mean, — till  she’s 
done  it.  And  she’d  gone  on  so  about  hiding  in  the 
church  that  I  think  nurse  was  a  little  uncomfortable. 
Perhaps  she  began  to  wish  she  hadn’t  told  us  the  story 
of  her  mother,  but  I  wouldn’t  say  so,  for  I  didn’t  want 
to  vex  her.  She’d  been  really  so  very  kind. 

After  that  Sunday,  however,  for  some  weeks  noth¬ 
ing  more  was  said  about  it,  and  we  left  off  talking  of 
the  Maggie  story.  We  had  so  many  other  things  to 

do  and  to  speak  about.  The  weather  got  all  right 
*5 


*226 


T1IE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


again,  even  better  than  before,  for  every  day  now  was 
getting  us  nearer  and  nearer  into  the  real  summer; 
though,  of  course,  even  in  the  middle  of  summer  there 
do  come  cold  wet  bits,  just  like  our  first  day  at  Moss- 
moor.  But  for  some  time  we  had  nothing  but  lovely 
weather. 

It's  a  very  drying  soil  all  about  Fewforest ;  after  two 

or  three  fine  days,  even  in  the  woods,  the  ground  is 

so  dry  that  you'd  think  it  hadn’t  rained  since  the  world 

* 

was  made.  It’s  partly  with  the  trees  being  mostly 

'•  r 

%s  which  are  so  neat  and  bare  low  down — no  mess 
of  undergrowth  about  them.  And  the  soil  is  very 
nice,  so  beautifully  clean  and  crunchy  to  walk  on,  for 
it’s  made  of  the  pricks  that  fall  off  the  firs,  in  great 
part.  It’s  perfectly  splendid  to  lie  on — springy  and 
yielding  and  not  a  bit  dirty — your  things  don’t  get 
soiled  in  the  least. 

They  say,  too,  that  the  scent  or  breath  of  pines  and 
firs — I  think  it’s  rather  nice  to  think  it’s  the  sweet 
breath  of  the  trees,  don’t  you  ? — is  awfully  good  for 
coughs  and  illnesses  to  do  with  coughs.  So  it  suited 
us  very  well  indeed  to  spend  a  great  part  of  our  time 
in  the  woods.  And  certainly  the  girls’  coughs  soon 
went  quite  away.  I  was  glad.  I  really  could  hardly 
help  hitting  them  sometimes  when  they  would  go  on 
barking  and  whooping,  even  though  I  suppose  they 
couldn’t  stop  it.  They  still  coughed  a  little  if  they  ran 
too  fast,  or  if  they  got  excited  or  angr^  T  or*  believe 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


227 


Serry  pretended  it  sometimes  just  to  be  aggravating,  for 
she  was  in  rather  an  aggravating  humor  at  that  time. 
I  think  it  was  partly  from  not  having  Hebe,  who  has 
such  a  good  way  with  her,  and  as  Anne  and  Maud 
always  stick  together,  you  see  Serena  was  rather  left  to 
me,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  have  a  good  way  with  her 
at  all,  she  makes  me  so  angry.  Though  we  get  on  a 
good  deal  better  now  than  we  did  then. 

Still,  on  the  whole,  we  were  very  happy  indeed. 
We  did  a  little  lessons — at  least  Anne  and  I  did  regularly. 
Miss  Stirling  had  set  me  some  Latin  and  French,  and 
Anne  didn’t  want  to  get  behind  me  in  Latin,  so  she  did 
it  with  me,  and  she  was  very  good  in  helping  me  with 
my  French,  for  she’s  much  farther  on  than  me  in 
French. 

That  was  in  the  mornings,  for  an  hour  or  so.  Then 
we  used  to  go  what  nurse  calls  a  “good  bracing 
walk,  ”  right  over  the  heath  that  edges  the  woods,  for 
two  or  three  miles  sometimes.  We  used  to  come  in 
for  dinner  pretty  hungry,  I  can  tell  you.  But  Mrs. 
Parsley  didn’t  mind  how  much  she  had  to  cook  for 
us.  She  was  as  pleased  as  if  you’d  given  her  a 
present  when  nurse  said  she  never  had  known  our 
appetites  so  good. 

Sometimes  we  met  the  getting-well  children  from 
the  Home.  But  I  rather  fancy  the  people  there  had 
heard  about  the  whooping-cough ;  for  though  the 
young  lady  who  was  with  them  smiled  at  us  very 


228 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


nicely  always,  she  rather  shoo'd  them  away  from 
us.  And  it  was  always  the  same  round-faced,  beamy- 
looking  girl — not  Miss  Cross-at-first,  certainly. 

Then  in  the  afternoons  we  mostly  played  or  sat 
about  the  woods,  coming  in  for  tea,  and  sometimes, 
when  it  was  very  fine  and  mild,  nurse  let  us  go  out 
again  a  little  after  tea.  But  if  it  was  the  least  chilly 
or  windy  or  anything,  she  wouldn't  let  the  girls  go 
out,  and  then  we  sat  altogether  playing  games,  or 
now  and  then  telling  stories  till  bed-time.  Very  often 
dear  Mrs.  Parsley  would  come  in,  and  we  always  made 
her  sit  dowrn  and  talk  to  us.  And  sometimes  I'd  go  out 
a  stroll  by  myself  in  the  evening — towards  the  village 
generally,  for  there  was  often  a  letter  to  post  or  some 
little  message  for  nurse  to  the  shop.  And  then  I  got 
another  reason  for  walking  that  way  in  the  evening, 
which  I'll  tell  you  about  directly. 

We  had  been  five  weeks  at  the  farm  vhen  one  day 
we  got  very  jolly  news  from  mums.  The  news  had 
been  pretty  jolly  all  the  time  ;  Hebe  had  gone  on 
getting  better,  though  the  doctor  at  Ventnor  had 
thought  her  very  weak  at  first,  and  so  she  and  mums 
had  stayed  on  longer  than  they'd  expected  they 
would.  But  this  letter  told  that  they  had  really  fixed  a 
day  for  coming  back  to  London,  and  that  the  nice 
Ventnor  doctor  said  no  air  could  be  better  for  Hebe 

now  than  Fewforest,  and  so  mums  was  going  to 

\ 

bring  her  down  the  very  next  Friday  to  be  with  us  for 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


229 


the  last  three  weeks.  Mums  was  coming  herself  too, 
to  stay  from  Friday  to  Monday,  for  father  had  to  be 
away  with  gran  those  two  days.  Gran  was  at  Brighton, 
I  think,  but  he  was  coming  back  now  mums  would  be 
there.  There  was  a  postscript  to  the  letter — it  was  to 
Anne, — in  which  mums  said  she  might  perhaps  want 
nurse  to  come  up  to  London  for  a  few  hours  to  see 
about  clothes  or  something.  “If  I  do,”  she  wrote, 
“do  you  think  I  can  trust  you  and  Jack  to  take  care 
of  the  two  little  ones?  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Parsley  would 
be  most  kind,  but  of  course  I  do  not  want  to  give  her 
more  trouble  than  we  can  help.” 

“Oh,”  said  Serena,  when  Anne  had  read  all  that 
aloud — “  I  wish  she  had  stopped  before  the  postscript 
— that  would  be  fun.  We’d  lead  old  Jack  a  dance 
wouldn’t  we,  Maud?  As  for  Anne,  we’d  find  her  a 
new  book,  and  then  she  wouldn’t  trouble  us.  ” 

Maud  looked  at  her  with  scorn,  but  would  not  con¬ 
descend  to  speak.  I  do  believe  from  that  moment 
Serry  settled  to  play  some  kind  of  trick  if  we  were 
left  alone.  But  when  I  said  to  Anne  that  I  hoped  to 
goodness  we  shouldn’t  be  left  in  charge  of  Serry,  she 
only  said  it  would  be  all  right ;  Serry  made  herself 
out  worse  than  she  was,  and  so  on.  Anne  is  so  easy¬ 
going. 

Now  I  must  tell  you  why  I  liked  strolling  down  to 
the  church  in  the  evenings.  It  only  began  the  week 
before  Hebe  and  mums  were  to  come.  I  happened  to 


230 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


have  gone  to  the  village  rather  late  with  a  letter,  and, 
coming  back,  I  noticed  that  there  was  some  light  in 
the  church,  even  though  it  wasn't  the  time  for  any 
service.  And,  standing  still  for  a  moment,  suddenly  I 
heard  the  organ  begin.  Some  one  was  playing  it.  The 

c 

door  was  a  little  open,  and  I  went  inside  the  porch  and 
found  I  could  hear  quite  welL  It  was  beautiful,  far 
nicer  than  on  Sundays,  and  after  a  while  I  heard  sing¬ 
ing  too.  Such  lovely  singing — it  was  a  womans  voice 
— and  she  sang  some  of  the  things  I  liked  best,  and  I 
stayed  there  listening  as  long  as  I  dared.  The  next 
evening  I  couldn't  come,  but  the  one  after  that  I  did., 
and  she  was  there  again,  and  I  listened  ever  so  long. 
After  that  I  came  whenever  I  could  ;  sometimes  she 
was  there  and  sometimes  not, — it  was  rather  fun 
wondering  if  she  would  be.  I  told  Anne  about  it,  and 
she  said  she'd  like  awfully  to  come  with  me  one 
evening,  but  we  didn't  know  how  to  manage  it,  for  we 
really  couldn't  tell  Serry.  She'd  have  teased  so  to 
come  too,  and  she'd  have  spoilt  it  all  with  her  fidgeting, 
and  if  we'd  told  nurse  and  asked  her  to  let  us  go 
without  the  little  ones,  Serry  would  have  made  some 
sort  of  a  fuss  I'm  sure.  So  I  jest  kept  on  going 
whenever  I  could,  though  very  often  there  was  no 
music.  And  I  promised  Anne  that  the  first  chance 
I  could  see  I'd  take  her  too. 

Mums  wrote  for  nurse  to  go  up  to  London  on  the 
Thursday — just  the  day  before  she  and  Hebe  were 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


231 


coming.  Nurse  was  to  go  up  by  an  afternoon  train, 
and  she'd  get  back  about  nine  in  the  evening,  mums 
wrote ;  and  we — Anne  and  I — might  help  to  put  the 
little  ones  to  bed,  and  then  we  might  sit  up  till  nurse 
came  back.  There  was  really  nothing  to  be  anxious 
about,  Mrs.  Parsley  was  so  kind,  and  really  we  were 
old  enough  to  ho  left  an  hour  or  two  by  ourselves. 
Still  nurse  seemed  a  little  uneasy.  I’m  sure  it  was  all 
about  Serena.  Anne  and  I  promised  her  we'd  be 
awfully  careful  and  good. 

“  I  know  I  can  depend  upon  you,  Master  Jack,"  said 
nurse.  We  were  alone  at  the  time — she  and  I — “and 
really  Miss  Anne  is  wonderfully  improved.  Since  the 
diamond  ornament  was  lost,  and  it  being  partly  through 
her  fault,  she's  hardly  like  the  same  young  lady.  It's 
an  ill  wind  that  does  nobody  any  good,  they  say  ;  per¬ 
haps  Miss  Serry  will  take  a  sensible  turn  after  a  while.  * 

“I  hope  it  won't  have  to  cost  another  diamond 
ornament,  and  us  all  having  whooping-cough  again — 
no,  I  suppose  you  can't  have  it  twice,  but  I  daresay 
there  are  plenty  of  other  illnesses  just  as  horrid  or  hor- 
rider,  ”  I  said  rather  grumpily. 

“I  hope  not,"  said  nurse,  “  though  I  would  really 
be  thankful  if  Miss  Serry  would  take  thought.  There’s 
never  any  saying  what  she'll  be  after  next.  The  rest 
of  the  nursery  work  all  put  together  isn  t  above  half 
what  the  mending  and  tidying  up  of  her  things  alone 


232 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


Serry  could  take  thought  if  she  chose  ;  she  had  an 
uncommonly  good  memory  when  it  suited  her. 

This  was  the  day  before  nurse  was  going.  I  nad 
found  out  by  now  that  the  music  at  the  church  was 
mostly  every  other  evening,  and  as  Td  heard  it  the  night 
before,  very  likely  the  lady  would  be  playing  and  sing¬ 
ing  again  the  next  day.  So  all  of  a  sudden  I  thought 
I’d  better  tell  nurse  about  it,  and  get  leave  to  go  if  it 
was  a  fine  evening  with  Anne,  and  Mrs.  Parsley  would 
take  care  of  the  little  ones. 

Nurse  wasn't  sure  about  it,  but  when  I  told  her  very 
likely  Serry  would  be  better  alone  with  Maud  and  Mrs. 
Parsley  than  if  we  were  all  together  the  whole  long 
evening,  she  gave  in. 

“Very  well,"  she  said,  “but  don't  you  and  Miss 
Anne  stay  out  late — not  above  half  an  hour." 

I  promised  her  we  wouldn't. 

Anne  was  very  pleased,  only  she  said  wouldn't  if 
perhaps  be  better  if  we  all  four  went ;  it  would  be  a 
little  treat  for  Serry  to  look  forward  to,  and  perhaps  it 
would  keep  her  good  the  rest  of  the  time. 

I  thought  afterwards  Anne  had  been  right,  but  I 
wouldn’t  agree  with  her  when  she  said  it.  I  didn’t 
want  Serry  at  all ;  I  wouldn't  have  minded  Maud,  but 
I  knew  Serry  would  spoil  it  all.  So  I  said  to  Anne  it 
would  never  do  ;  they'd  fidget  or  make  a  noise,  and  the 
lady  who  was  playing  might  hear  us  and  be  vexed,  and 
it  would  be  horrid  to  have  any  fuss  in  a  church,  we 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


233 


might  get  scolded  by  the  verger  or  possibly  even  the 
clergyman, — what  would  father  and  mother  and  gran 
think  of  such  a  thing  ? 

Anne  gave  in.  But  I  gave  in  to  her  a  bit  too.  She 
said  it  was  much  best  to  make  no  mystery  about  it. 
Serry  was  as  sharp  as  a  needle  about  mysteries,  and  she’d 
only  set  herself  to  find  out.  So  that  Thursday  morn¬ 
ing  at  breakfast — the  day  nurse  was  to  be  away — I  said 
quietly,  “  Anne  and  I  are  going  to  church  this  evening 
for  half  an  hour.  Nurse,  please  tell  Serry  that  she  and 
Maud  may  stay  with  Mrs.  Parsley  in  her  kitchen  while 
we're  out." 

‘ 4  Yes,  ”  said  nurse.  “You  hear,  Miss  Serry  and  Miss 
Maud.  It'll  make  a  little  change  for  you." 

“I  like  being  in  Mrs.  Parsley’s  kitchen  for  a  while  in 
the  evening  very  much,  don’t  you,  Serry  ?  ”  said  Maud. 

But  Serry  did  not  answer.  I  think  she  pretended 
not  to  hear.-  Still  she  couldn't  make  out  now  that  she 
hadn't  been  properly  told. 

Well,  with  many  charges  and  warnings,  poor  nurse 
set  off.  The  red-eared  boy  drove  her  to  the  station, 
and  we  ran  over  the  fields  by  a  short  cut  to  a  stile  on 
the  road,  where  we  could  see  her  pass,  and  there  we 
shouted  out  again  all  our  messages  to  mums  and 
Hebe — nurse  couldn't  possibly  have  remembered  all 
the  things  we  told  her  to  say,  and  it  didn't  matter 
certainly,  considering  we  were  going  to  see  them  the 
very  next  day* 


234 


THE  GIliLS  AND  I. 


The  first  part  of  the  afternoon  we  got  on  all  right. 
We'd  had  dinner  earlier  than  usual  so  that  nurse  should 
be  in  time  for  the  train,  and  after  she  was  fairly  off  we 
went  out  into  the  woods  with  baskets  to  get  all  the 
flowers  we  could  for  mums  and  Hebe — I  mean  to  make 
the  rooms  look  nice  for  them. 

There  weren't  very  many,  for  of  course  the  spring 
flowers  were  over,  and  it  was  too  early  for  the  regular 
summer  ones.  Besides,  the  spring  is  always  the  best 
time  for  flowers  that  grow  in  the  woods.  Still  we  got 
some,  pretty  nice,  and  some  trails  of  ivy  and  these 
pretty  reddy  leaves  that  you  can  find  most  of  the  year. 
And  we  got  a  lot  of  fir  cones  too — mums  does  so  love 
the  scent  of  them  in  the  fire,  and  as  people  often  feel 
a  little  chilly  when  they  first  come  out  to  the  country, 
we  fixed  we'd  have  a  nice  fire  in  the  evening,  and  make 
it  nearly  all  of  the  cones. 

After  that  we  went  in  and  arranged  our  flowers  ;  there's 
always  lots  of  moss  in  the  woods,  and  with  moss  you 
can  make  a  good  show  even  with  very  little. 

Then  there  came  teadime.  We  were  a  good  while 
over  tea,  for  even  though  Serry  had  been  all  right  so 
far,  both  Anne  and  I  felt  a  little  fidgety — Serry  was 
almost  too  good,  if  you  understand. 

It  was  half-past  five,  or  nearer  six  than  that,  I  daresay, 
when  we  had  finished  tea.  Anne  and  I  wanted  to  go 
to  the  church  about  a  quarter  to  seven,  meaning  to  be 
back  before  half-past,  which  was  the  two  little  ones 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


235 


bed-time,  so  that  we  could  help  Mrs.  Parsley  if  she 
needed  us. 

Mrs.  Parsley  looked  rather  worried  when  she  came 
in  to  take  away  the  tea  things — not  crossly  worried,  for 
she  was  as  kind  as  could  be,  but  just  troubled.  And 
afterwards  we  knew  that  the  reason  was  that  an  old 
aunt  of  theirs  who  lived  a  mile  or  two  off  was  very  ill, 
and  had  sent  for  her,  but  she  didnyt  like  to  go  because 
of  leaving  us.  She  didn't  tell  us  ;  I  almost  think  it 
Would  have  been  better  if  she  had,  for  then  Anne  and 
I  would  have  given  up  going  out  and  have  looked  after 
Serry  and  Maud  till  nurse  came  back.  Only,  if  we  had 
done  that,  very  likely  nothing  would  have  happened 
the  same,  and  the  wond - -no,  I  must  go  straight  on. 

Well,  we  played  “patience,”  and  did  everything  we 
could  to  please  Serry  till  about  half-past  six.  Did  I  tel! 
you  that  there's  a  very  jolly  old  clock  in  the  Parsley's 
summer  kitchen  ? — so  we  always  know  the  time.  Then 
I  said  to  Anne  I  thought  she  might  go  and  get  ready, 
and  we  might  as  well  start,  and  “you  two,”  I  said  to 
Serry  and  Maud,  “can  go  to  Mrs.  Parsley  till  we  come 
back.” 

Maud  began  gathering  up  the  cards  and  counters  and 
things  we'd  been  playing  with,  and  putting  them  to¬ 
gether  tidily — she's  always  so  tidy, — but  Serry  had  got 
a  “  patience  ”  half  set  set  out. 

“  Do  let  me  finish  this, ''  she  said,  “  and  then  I  prom¬ 
ise  you  I'll  go  into  Mrs.  Parsley's  kitchen." 


236 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


“  You  promise,  ”  I  said.  By  this  time  Anne  had  come 
downstairs  with  her  hat  and  jacket  on,  and  I  was  stand¬ 
ing  by  the  door  with  my  cap  in  my  hand. 

“  Promise/'  said  Serena,  “word  of  honor.  ” 

Well,  she’s  not  a  story-teller  after  all,  and  she 
wouldn’t  break  a  right-down  promise  like  that,  so  I 
thought  it  was  all  right. 

“We  shan’t  be  long,”  I  said,  and  off  we  set,  Anne 
and  I,  thinking  we  had  managed  beautifully. 

It  was  very  nice  and  peaceful  outside ;  Anne  is 
really  very  jolly  when  you  get  her  alone  and  she  isn’t 
thinking  of  some  book  or  other  she’s  reading,  and  we 
quite  enjoyed  the  little  walk.  The  church  was  open 
as  usual,  but  there  was  no  sound  of  music  yet,  only 
there  was  a  light  up  in  the  organ  loft,  which  I  was 
sure  showed  the  lady  was  coming,  though  Anne 
thought  it  was  perhaps  only  a  reflection  of  the  even¬ 
ing  light  through  the  window.  But  I  knew  by  this 
time  that  it  was  always  pretty  dark  up  by  the  organ, 
except  perhaps  in  the  very  middle  of  the  day  in  very 
bright  weather. 

We  didn’t  stay  in  the  porch  like  I’d  done  at  first. 
I  had  found  a  nice  little  corner  just  inside,  where  we 
could  hear  beautifully,  and  yet  slip  out  in  a  moment,  in 
case  any  one  came  and  found  fault.  And  there  we  sat 
quite  happily,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  we  heard  a  hum 
beginning,  and  then  some  notes,  and  then  the  playing 
started  properly.  It  was  beautiful.  Anne  squeezed 


TEE  GIRLS  AND  L 


237 


my  hand,  and  I  felt  quite  proud  of  having  found  it 
out — like  a  showman,  you  know.  “  But  wait  till  you 
hear  her  singing/*  I  whispered. 

She  was  still  only  playing,  luckily ,  when,  what  do 
you  think  happened?  The  big  door  behind  us  was 
slowly  pushed  openly,  and  in  walked,  as  cool  as 
twenty  cucumbers,  two  small  figures,  giving  us — no, 
that  was  only  Serry — a  condescending  little  nod  and 
smile  as  they  slipped  into  a  seat  almost  alongside 


ours. 


238 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
miss  cross-at-first's  fur  cape. 

I  couldn't  help  it,  even  though  it  was  in  church  I 
felt  so  boiling.  I  jumped  up  and  caught  hold  of 
Serry's  arm  and  pulled  her  out  into  the  porch.  Poor 
Maud  came  too  of  herself,  and  when  we  got  outside 
into  the  light,  I  saw  that  she  looked  pale  and 
frightened.  Then  Anne  appeared,  quite  puzzled  and 
dazed,  for  she'd  been  all  up  in  the  music  and  had 
almost  forgotten  where  she  was,  or  if  she  was  any¬ 
where,  as  she  does  sometimes. 

/  was  all  there  though.  I  closed  the  door  so  that 
our  voices  couldn't  possibly  be  heard  from  the  inside, 
and  then  I  faced  round  upon  Serry. 

“  What's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  "  I  said.  “The  very 
moment  nurse's  back  is  turned  you  begin  disobeying 
her  ? " 

Serena's  eyes  sparkled.  She  has  very  funny  eyes. 
Sometimes,  when  she's  very  mischievous,  they  look 
really  green,  though  sometimes  they're  very  pretty. 

“Then  you  shouldn't  go  plotting  for  you  and  Anne 
to  have  treats,  and  to  keep  us  out  of  them, "  she  said. 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


289 

\ 

“  ‘Treats/ — nonsense/'  I  said.  “As  if  it  was  a 
treat.  A  simple  thing  like  this,  coming  down  to  listen 
to  the  organ." 

“  Well  why  shouldn't  Maud  and  I  have  a  simple 
pleasure  too  ?  ” 

“You  don't  care  for  music,  at  least  you  hate  sitting 
still,  and  Maud  was  quite  happy  at  the  farm.  She 
didn't  want  to  come." 

“No,  Jack,  truly  I  didn't,"  said  Maud  almost  cry¬ 
ing.  “  But  Serry  said  if  I  didn't  she'd  run  off  into 
the  wood  and  hide  herself  so  that  we  couldn't  find 
her.  And  she  told  the  servant  to  tell  Mrs.  Parsley  we’d 
gone  with  you  after  all,  and  wre'd  be  all  home  soon. 
And  Mrs.  Parsley  was  upstairs,  and  she  called  down, 
‘All  right,  my  dears,'  and  Serry  said  if  I  said  any¬ 
thing  she'd - "  I  never  knew  what  Serry  had  said 

she'd  do,  for  now  Maud  began  crying,  and  Anne  put 
her  arms  round  her,  and  kissed  and  comforted  her. 

Then  Anne  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  What 
should  we  do  ?  After  all  it  wasn’t  a  very  big  thing  ; 
it  wouldn't  do  any  harm  for  them  to  sit  listening  to 
the  music  too  if  Serry  would  be  quiet.  And  perhaps 
she  would  be,  to  make  up  for  having  been  so  naughty. 
So  I  said,  “As  you  are  here,  you  had  better  stay. 
Take  Maud  into  the  church,  Anne.  I’ll  look  after 
Serry.  ” 

But  when  I  was  going  to  take  hold  of  Serry  she 
clipped  away. 


240 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


“I  won't  be  pulled  and  dragged  about,”  she  said 
“  I'll  go  into  a  corner  and  be  quite  quiet  if  you'll  leave 
me  alone,  but  I'll  scream  if  you  don't.” 

Just  then  the  singing  began.  I  didn't  want  to  miss 
any  of  it,  and  Serry  was  more  likely  to  be  quiet  if  I 
gave  in.  So  I  let  her  go  ;  she  went  in  before  me  very 
quickly,  right  into  a  corner  as  she  said,  and  she  gave 
me  a  sort  of  a  nod  over  her  shoulder.  I  hoped  it 
meant  she  was  going  to  be  sensible. 

The  singing  was  most  beautiful  that  night.  We  all 
three  sat  listening  and  listening.  I  think  Anne  soon 
went  up  into  the  clouds  again  and  forgot  everything 
else.  Maudie  liked  it  too  ;  she  leant  against  me,  but 
every  now  and  then  I  felt  her  shiver,  and  little  sobs 
went  through  her.  Maud  scarcely  ever  cries,  but 
when  she  does  it  seems  to  tire  her  out.  And  Serry 
had  worried  her  very  badly. 

“Are  you  cold,  dear?”  I  whispered,  and  she  said 
she  was  a  little.  Serry  had  hurried  her  out  without 
seeing  that  she  was  properly  wrapped  up,  and  it  was 
a  chilly  evening,  I  forgot  to  say.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  been  better  if  I  had  made  them  all  come  away 
then,  but  it  did  seem  such  a  pity  to  miss  the  singing. 
I  think  it  was  “  Angels  ever  bright  and  fair,”  but  I’m 
not  sure.  We've  heard  so  many  of  her  beautiful  songs 
since  then  that  I’m  not  sure  which  it  was. 

Suddenly  we  heard  the  door  pushed  open,  and  some 
one  came  into  the  church.  It  was  a  girl ;  she  came 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


241 


in  very  quickly,  and  hurried  up  the  aisle  and  in  through 
a  door  or  a  curtain  somewhere  at  the  side.  It  was 
already  darker  than  when  we  came.  A  minute  after, 
we  heard  talking — the  singing  had  stopped,  I  forgot  to 
say — and  then  two  people  came  out  at  the  side,  and 
hurried  back  again  down  the  aisle  and  out  at  the  door. 
It  was  the  person  who  had  been  playing,  and  the  girl 
who  had  come  evidently  to  fetch  her. 

They  didn't  shut  the  door  to,  only  closed  it  a  little. 

“What  a  pity,"  said  Anne,  “she's  been  fetched 
away. " 

“Yes,"  said  I,  “  but  Maudie’s  rather  cold.  Perhaps 
it's  best  for  us  to  go  home,"  and  we  got  up  and  went 
towards  the  door. 

I  looked  round  for  Serry.  She  wasn't  in  the  comer 
we  had  seen  her  in. 

“  I  expect  Serry 's  outside  in  the  porch,"  I  said  to 
Anne.  But  no,  she  wasn't. 

“  She  was  sitting  in  the  same  place  just  before  the 
girl  came  in,"  said  Anne.  “  I  saw  her." 

“She  can't  have  gone  home,"  I  said.  “She's  not 
very  fond  of  walking  about  alone.  She  must  be  some¬ 
where  in  the  church. " 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  there  came  over  me  the  re¬ 
membrance  of  her  boast  about  being  able  to  hide  in  the 
church  so  that  we  couldn't  find  her.  Was  that  what 
she  had  been  after  ?  Was  that  her  reason  for  following 

us,  that  she  thought  it  would  be  a  good  chance  for  play- 

16 


242 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


• 

ing  us  this  trick  ?  It  was  too  bad.  There  was  poor 
Maud  tired  and  cold,  and  Anne  and  me  who  had  been 
worried  enough  already.  I  really  felt  as  if  I  couldn’t 
stand  it. 

I  asked  Maud  what  she  thought,  but  of  course  Serry 
hadn’t  said  a  word  to  her  about  hiding.  It  wasn’t  likely 
she  would,  but  every  minute  we  got  surer  that  she  was 
hiding. 

You  can’t  shout  out  in  a  church,  and  yet  it  wasn’t  easy 
to  hunt.  We  began  ;  we  poked  into  any  of  the  dark 
corners  we  could  think  of,  and  behind  the  doors  and 
curtains,  and  even  in  the  pulpit,  though  it  was  a  sort  of 
open-work  that  a  mouse  could  scarcely  have  hidden  in 
— not  like  the  one  in  the  “Maggie”  story.  But  it  was 
all  of  no  use,  and  it  was  more  provoking  than  you  can 
fancy  to  know  that  all  the  time  the  naughty  child  was 
hearing  us,  and  laughing  at  us.  We  went  on  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  more,  I  daresay  ;  then  I  deter¬ 
mined  I’d  bother  no  more. 

“  Stop,  Anne,”  I  said,  in  a  low  voice,  “  I’m  not  going 
to - ”  but  Anne  interrupted  me. 

“I  hear  something,”  she  said.  “Listen;  what  is 


There  was  a  little  sound  of  footsteps,  but  not  inside 
the  church,  I  thought.  Still  it  might  be  Serry  ;  she 
might  have  slipped  out  to  baffle  us.  But  first  I  thought 
I’d  try  my  new  idea.  I  slipped  out  as  near  the  middle 
as  I  could,  and  then  I  said,  loud  and  clear,  though  not 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


243 


shouting,  of  course — do  you  know  I  felt  quite  fright¬ 
ened  when  I  heard  my  own  voice  so  loud,  it  seemed 
so  unreverent — 

“Serena” — this  was  what  I  said — “you  can  hear 
me  quite  well,  I  know,  so  I  give  you  fair  warning  that 
if  you  don't  come  out  before  I  finish  counting  twelve 
we'll  go  home,  and  leave  you  to  yourself — to  stay  here 
all  night  if  you  choose.  ” 

Then  I  began,  “One,  two,  three,  four” — was  it 
fancy,  or  did  I  hear  a  little  smothered  laugh  just  as  I 
was  going  to  say  “  five?  ” — but  then  all  was  still  again, 
and  I  went  on,  till,  just  as  I  was,  you  may  say,  on  the 
stroke  of  ‘  ‘  twelve,  ”  there  came  a  flutter  and  a  rush  down 
the  aisle,  and  there  was  Miss  Serry,  tossing  her  hair 
back,  her  eyes  looking,  I  am  sure,  if  there  had  been 
light  enough  to  see  them  by,  very  bright  green  indeed. 
But,  just  as  she  appeared,  there  came  another  sound — 
a  harsh,  rasping,  grating  sound — a  queer  feeling  went 
through  me  as  I  heard  it,  only  I  was  so  taken  up  with 
Serry  that  I  didn't  seem  to  have  attention  to  spare,  and 
I  didn't  really  take  in  for  the  moment  what  it  meant. 

There  was  Serry  as  triumphant  as  could  be. 

“  I  don't  mind  coming  out  now,”  she  said.  “I've 
proved  that  you  couldn't  find  me.” 

“You  have  been  about  as  naughty  as  you  could 
be,”  said  Anne,  “and  whether  Jack  tells  mother  all 
about  it  or  not,  I  know  /  shall.” 

Serena  did  not  answer.  She  really  seemed  startled. 


244  THE  GIRLS  AND  L 

It  is  not  often  that  Anne  takes  that  tone.  She  used  to 
be  so  constantly  in  scrapes  herself — about  carelessness, 
and  forgettings,  and  losings,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing 
— that  I  think  she  felt  as  if  she  had  no  right  to  find 
fault  with  others.  But  after  a  moment  Serry  got  back 
her  coolness. 

“  Well,  anyway  I've  gained,"  she  said.  “  You  don't 
know  where  I  was  hidden,  and  you'd  never  have  found 
me. 

And  to  this  day  she  has  never  told  us  ! 

“  Let  us  get  home  now  as  fast  as  we  can,"  said 
Anne;  “  there  is  poor  Maudie  shivering  with  cold 
I'm  afraid  she's  got  a  chill." 

We  turned  towards  the  door,  but  suddenly  the  re¬ 
membrance  of  the  sound  I  had  heard  came  back  to 
me,  and  a  great  fear  went  through  me.  I  hurried  on. 
Yes,  it  was  too  true;  the  door  was  locked,  locked 
from  the  outside,  and  we  were  prisoners — prisoners 
pretty  certainly  for  the  night  !  I  faced  round  upon  the 
girls  and  told  them. 

“  I  remember  hearing  the  sound  of  locking,"  I  said. 

But  at  first  -they  wouldn't  believe  me ;  I  could 
scarcely  believe  it  myself.  We  rattled  and  shook  at 
the  door  in  the  silly  way  people  do  in  such  cases  ;  of 
course  it  was  no  use.  Then  we  made  journeys  round 
the  church  to  all  the  other  doors  ;  none  of  them  had 
been  open  in  the  daytime,  so  it  wasn't  likely  they 
would  be  now.  Then  we  considered  together  if  it 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


245 


would  be  any  use  shouting,  but  we  were  sure  it 
wouldn’t  be.  There  was  no  house ' very  near  the 
church  ;  the  Convalescent  Home,  on  rising  ground 
a  little  behind  it,  was  about  the  nearest,  and  we  knew 
our  voices  could  never  be  heard  there.  And  we  were 
too  far  back  from  the  road  to  hope  that  any  passer-by 
would  hear  us ;  beside  which,  unluckily,  it  was  a 
windy  night — the  wind  had  risen  a  good  deal  since  we 
had  come  out.  We  could  hear  it  outside,  and  it  almost 
sounded  as  if  it  was  raining  too. 

“  There  is  nothing  for  it,”  I  said  at  last,  “  but  to  stay 
quietly  and  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  we  can 
till  some  one  comes  to  let  us  out.  Mrs.  Parsley  is  sure 
to  miss  us  and  send,  as  she  knows  where  we  are.  The 
great  thing  is  to  keep  poor  Maud  from  catching  cold.  ” 

I  wasn’t  cold  myself;  I  had  been  moving  about, 
and  then  I  wasn't  getting  well  of  an  illness  like  the 
girls.  So  I  took  off  my  ulster  and  made  Maudie  put  it 
on.  There  were  no  cushions  in  the  church,  but  we 
collected  all  the  hassocks  we  could,  and  built  up  a  sort 
of  little  nest,  and  then  we  all  huddled  in  together.  It 
was  fast  getting  dark,  and  after  we  had  been  sitting 
there  a  while  we  heard  the  clock  outside  strike  eight. 

I  couldn't  make  it  out  ;  they  must  have  missed  us  at 
the  farm  before  this.  But  they  hadn't,  and  I  may  as 
well  explain  here — a  lot  of  explainings  together  at  the 
end  are  so  confusing,  I  think — how  it  was.  You  re¬ 
member  my  saying  Mrs.  Parsley  had  had  bad  news  that 


246 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


day.  Well,  just  as  Serry  called  out  to  her  that  she  and 
Maud  were  coming  with  us  after  all,  another  message 
had  come  that  she  must  go  at  once  to  the  old  lady  who 
was  so  ill.  There  was  no  choice,  she  had  to  go,  so  the 
horse  was  put  to  and  the  red-eared  boy  drove  her  off 
Mr.  Parsley  hadn't  come  in,  so  all  she  could  do  was 
to  tell  the  servant  we'd  all  be  in  soon,  and  she  must  tell 
us  what  had  happened,  and  that  she'd  send  the  cart 
back  to  the  station  to  meet  nurse  at  nine.  Now,  the 
servant  was  very  stupid:  she  got  “nine"  into  her 
head,  and  when  Mr.  Parsley  came  in  about  half-past 
seven  she  told  him  we  were  all  to  be  in  at  nine ;  and 
he  said  afterwards  he'd  got  some  vague  idea  that  we 
had  all  gone  in  the  cart  to  meet  nurse.  Anyhow,  he 
wasn't  a  bit  uneasy,  and  after  he’d  had  his  supper  he 
set  off  walking  to  the  old  aunts  to  see  how  she  was, 
and  to  arrange  about  Mrs.  Parsley  staying  all  night 
if  she  had  to. 

So  you  see,  till  nurse  got  back,  there  was  no  one  to 
be  uneasy  about  us. 

But  we  didn't  know  it,  and  there  we  sat,  more  and 
more  puzzled,  and  even  frightened  in  a  strange  sort  of 
way.  It  seemed  as  if  we'd  dropped  out  of  the  world 
and  nobody  cared. 

“At  the  worst,"  I  whispered  to  Anne,  “when  nurse 
Gomes  they’ll  hunt  us  up.  She  knows  we  were  to  be 
hi  the  church,  and  she'll  think  of  the  Maggie  story." 

“  Only,"  said  Anne,  “  suppose  she  misses  her  train, 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I.  247 

or  that  it's  very  late.  It’s  Maudie  I'm  so  unhappy 
about,  Jack.  Hush - 

For  we  heard  a  little  sob,  and  we  didn't  want  to 
wake  her.  She  had  fallen  asleep, i  and  Anne  and  I  were 
both  cuddling  her  close  to  keep  her  warm. 

“  Is  she  waking  ?  ”  I  said,  very  low. 

But  Anne  pinched  my  hand.  The  sob  wasn't  from 
Maud,  it  was  fromSerry.  I  must  say  I  was  rather  glad. 
It  was  about  time  for  her  to  sob  and  cry,  I  thought. 

We  waited  on  and  on.  After  a  bit  I  think  Anne  and 
Serry  too  got  drowsy,  and  perhaps  I  did  myself.  Any¬ 
how,  I  grew  stupid,  and  as  if  I  didn't  care  ;  but  I  was 
very  cold  too. 

It  seemed  such  a  tremendous  time.  I  heard  a  story 
not  long  ago  of  a  man  who  got  shut  in  somewhere — I 
think  it  was  in  the  catacombs,  or  some  place  like  that — 
who  went  through,  as  he  thought,  days  of  it.  He 
grew  terribly  hungry,  for  one  thing,  and  ate  his  candle, 
and  was  released  just  when  he  believed  he  was  at 
the  last  gasp,  and  after  all  he'd  only  been  there  three 
hours  !  It  did  seem  absurd,  but  I  can  quite  believe 
it.  He'd  lost  all  sense  of  time,  you  see.  Well,  I  sup¬ 
pose  it  was  rather  like  that  with  us.  I  know,  when  at 
last  we  heard  the  clock  strike,  I  was  sure  it  was  going 
on  to  twelve.  I  couldn’t  believe  it  was  only  nine ! 

“Anne,"  I  whispered,  “  are  you  awake  ?  How  ever 
are  we  to  wait  here  till  to-morrow  morning  l  It's  only 
nine  o'clock  I  ” 


24S 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


“Nurse  will  be  coming  home  soon  then,” said  Anne, 
hopefully;  “she’ll  never  wait  till  to-morrow  morning 
to  find  us.  ” 

“ I  don’t  know,”  I  said.  “I  can’t  make  anything 

i 

out.  I  think  it’s  as  if  we  were  all  dead  and  buried,  and 
nobody  cares.  ” 

“  Hush,”  said  a  clear  little  voice  ;  “  that’s  not  good, 
Jack.  God  cares,  always.  ” 

It  was  poor  little  Maudie,  and  again  I  heard  the 
choky  sob  from  Serena. 

Just  then,  as  if  in  answer  to  Maud,  at  last  we  heard 
a  sound,  or  sounds — voices  and  footsteps,  and  then  the 
grating  of  the  key  in  the  lock. 

“  They’ve  come  for  us,  they’ve  come  for  us!”  we 
cried,  and  up  we  all  jumped.  It  was  quite  dark,  but 
as  the  door  opened  a  light  came  in  ;  the  people,  who¬ 
ever  they  were  had  a  lantern.  But  it  wasn't  Mr.  Pars¬ 
ley,  nor  his  wife,  nor  the  red-eared  boy,  nor  any  one 
we  knew — at  least,  not  any  one  we  expected.  It  was 
— the  light  was  full  in  her  face,  and  she  was  frowning 
just  the  sort  of  way  I  remembered — it  was  Miss  Cross- 
at-first ! 

And  just  fancy  what  I  did?  I  ran  at  her,  I  was  so 
confused  and  stupid,  calling  her  that ! 

“Oh,  Miss  Cross-at-first,”  I  said,  “please  let  us 
outJ  We’ve  been  locked  in,  hours,  and  Maud  is  so 
cold !  ” 

It  must  have  been  awfully  muddling  for  her .  She 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


249 


frowned  worse  than  ever,  and  turned  to  the  girl  with 
her — a  girl  about  fifteen,  not  a  lady,  but  very  nice. 

“Who  are  they,  Linny !  ”  she  said.  “Do  you 
knew  ?  ” 

But  Linny  shook  her  head. 

“Some  mistake/’  she  began,  but  I  interrupted  her. 

“Til  tell  you  who  we  are/’  I  said.  “You  know  us, 
and  we  know  you,  but  I  can’t  remember  your  proper 
name,”  and  then  it  flashed  upon  me  what  I  had  called 
her,  and  I  got  scarlet. 

“My  name  isn’t  ‘Crossley/  or  whatever  you  said,” 
she  began  (oh,  how  thankful  I  was  she  hadn’t  heard 
properly  !  Afterwards  we  told  her  the  name  we’d 
given  her,  and  she  didn’t  mind  a  bit),  “but  I  seem  to 
know  you.  I’m  staying  at  the  Home  here.  I  left  my 
music  in  church,  for  I  went  off  in  a  hurry.  But  what 
in  the  world  were  you  all  doing  here  ?  ” 

“We  came  to  listen  to  you,”  I  said,  and  then  Anne 
went  on  to  explain.  She  did  it  so  nicely,  not  exactly 
putting  the  blame  on  Serry,  which  would  not  have 
been  kind  just  then,  but  she  quite  made  Miss  Merthyr 
understand. 

“You  poor  little  souls  !  ”  she  exclaimed.  “Of  course, 
I  remember  hearing  you  were  somewhere  down  here, 
but  I’ve  been  away.  I  only  came  back  again  a  few  days 
ago.  And  Maud,  poor  child,  you  do  look  blue.  I’ll 
tell  you  what,  come  back  to  the  Home  with  me  and 
get  warm.  Linny,  run  back  and  tell  them  to  heat  some 


250 


THE  GIRLS  AND  1. 


milk,  and  then  Linny  and  I  will  wrap  you  up  and  take 
you  home.’' 

“ But/'  said  a  little  voice,  “won’t  the  getting- well 
children  catch  the  whooping  cough  ?  " 

Judith — that's  what  we  always  call  her  now — 
couldn’t  help  laughing.  It  was  Maud  who  had  said  it. 

“The  Home  children  are  all  in  bed  and  asleep  long 
ago/'  she  said.  “They'll  run  no  risk,  and  I've  not 
heard  any  of  you  coughing.  I'm  sure  the  infection's 
over.  So  come  along.  Oh,  my  music  !  Linny,  take 
the  lantern  ;  oh  no,  she's  gone  !  Never  mind,  I'll  get 
it  on  my  way  home.  I  don't  want  the  organist  to 
confuse  it  with  his. " 

And  in  five  minutes  we  found  ourselves  in  the  kitchen 
at  the  Home,  in  front  of  a  jolly  fire,  and  with  nice  hot 
milk  to  drink.  For  it  really  was  a  cold  night  ;  it  had 
been  raining,  too,  pretty  sharply.  The  other  ladies  at 
the  Home — there  were  two,  and  two  servants — were 
very  nice  to  us.  But  Maud  kept  hold  of  Miss  Cross-at- 
first’s  hand  as  if  she  couldn't  let  go. 

“  Now,  we  must  get  you  home,"  said  Judith.  “  Let's 
see,  how  can  we  wrap  you  up  ?  Why,  this  is  your 
brother’s  jacket.  My  boy,  you  must  have  been  cold  ! 
Here,  put  on  your  coat,  and  I’ll  fetch  some  shawls  and 
things.  I  have  a  bundle  I  have  never  undone  since  I 
came,  for  it  hasn't  been  cold  till  now." 

She  flew  upstairs,  and  was  down  again  in  a  moment. 

“  Here's  a  shawl  for  each  of  you,"  she  said  to  Anne 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


251 


and  Serry  ;  “  and  here,  oh  yes,  this  short  fur  tippet  will 
be  just  the  thing  for  Maud.  I  didn’t  know  I'd  got  it  here.  ” 

It  was  a  nice  little  cape,  with  a  hood  at  the  back. 

She  opened  it  out  and  gave  it  a  shake,  as  people 
often  do  when  a  thing  has  been  folded  up,  and — some¬ 
thing  hard  dropped  out  of  it  and  rolled  on  to  the  stone 
floor  with  a  clatter. 

“What's  that?"  said  Judith.  “There  must  have 
been  some  pin  or  something  caught  in  the  fur.  I 
haven’t  worn  it  for  ever  so  long — not  since " 

She  stooped  and  looked  about  a  little  on  the  floor. 
But  she  is  near-sighted — that's  why  she  frowns  so— 
and  she  didn’t  see  anything. 

“Never  mind,  I  daresay  it  was  only  a  safety-pin, "  she 
said.  “  Here,  Maudie,  dear,"  and  she  held  out  the  cape. 

But  Anne  had  been  looking  about  on  the  floor  too, 
and  suddenly  she  made  a  dive  under  a  table  standing 
at  one  side.  When  she  stood  up  again  her  face  looked 
all — I  don’t  know  how. 

“  Jack,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were  choking,  “  it’s - " 

and  she  held  out  her  hand.  There,  on  her  palm — 
looking  not  quite  so  bright  as  the  last  time  we  had 
seen  it,  but  otherwise  none  the  worse — lay  the  diamond 
ornament ,  gran’s  curious  old-fashioned  treasure,  which 
had  caused  poor  mums  and  Anne,  and  indeed  all  of  us, 
so  much  trouble  and  distress. 

I  gasped.  I  couldn’t  speak.  Judith  stared. 

* * What  is  it? "  she  said. 


252 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


Then  I  tried  to  get  my  voice. 

“It's  the  thing  that  was  lost,”  I  said,  “  worth  ever 
so  much,  anu  an  heirloom  too.  Didn’t  you  know? 
Cousin  Dorothea  knew.  Mother  lost  it  the  day  of  the 
Drawing-room.  Oh,”  as  light  began  to  break  in  upon 
me,  “  it  must  have  dropped  on  to  your  cape  and  caught 
in  the  fur — it  is  very  fuzzy  fur — and  there  it’s  t)een  ever 
since  !  Oh,  to  think  of  it !  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Judith,  “there  it  has  been  ever  since. 
I’ve  never  had  on  the  cape  since,  and  my  maid  put  it 
in  with  these  shawls  when  I  was  coming  down  here. 
I  remember  her  saying  it  might  be  cold  here  sometimes. 
No,  I  never  heard  a  word  about  the  ornament  being 
lost.  You  know  I  didn’t  come  back  to  your  house  that 
day ;  I  went  straight  home.  I  wonder  I  never  heard 
of  it  But  I’ve  been  in  Germany  till  lately  ;  and  if  I 
had  heard  of  it  I  don’t  think  I  would  ever  have  thought 
of  this  little  cape.  It  must  have  fallen  into  the  hood  of 
my  cape  in  the  carriage.  I  remember  I  sat  beside 
Mrs.  Warwick.  It  is  really  wonderful  !  ” 

Wasn’t  it  ?  We  could  talk  of  nothing  else  all  the  way 
to  the  farm,  for  we  set  off  almost  at  once,  and  we  only 
got  there  in  time  to  prevent  poor  nurse  and  Mrs.  Parsley 
from  being  most  terribly  frightened  about  us,  as  they 
had  just  arrived,  Mrs.  Parsley  having  driven  to  the  sta¬ 
tion  to  pick  up  nurse  on  her  own  way  home,  as  the  old 
aunt  was  a  little  better,  and  she’d  got  a  neighbor  to 
come  in  for  the  night 


THE  GIRLS  AND  L 


253 


Nurse  was  rather  uneasy  when  she  heard  from  Mrs. 
Parsley  that  she'd  had  to  leave  us,  still  Fanny,  the  ser¬ 
vant,  was  very  good-natured,  and,  as  Mrs.  Parsley 
said,  it  was  difficult  to  think  what  harm  could  come  to 
us  in  a  couple  of  hours. 

Certainly,  getting  locked  up  in  church  was  a  very 
out-of-the-way  sort  of  accident  to  happen  ! 

But  the  finding  the  diamond  brooch  seemed  to  put 
everything  else  out  of  our  heads.  I  don’t  know  how 
late  we  didn't  sit  up  talking.  Maudie  grew  quite  bright 
again,  and  I  think  the  excitement  kept  her  from  catch¬ 
ing  cold.  Serry,  for  a  wonder,  was  the  quietest  of  all. 
She  told  me  afterwards  that  she  was  more  thankful 
than  she  could  say  that  her  naughtiness  hadn't  done 
Maud  any  harm,  and  she  told  it  all  to  mother — all  of 
her  own  self.  I  think  that  was  good  of  her.  The  only 
thing  she  kept  up  her  mischief  about  was  that  she  never 
has  told  us  where  she  hid. 

We  made  a  beautiful  plan  with  Miss  Cross-at-first — 
Judith,  I  mean.  She  was  to  go  with  us  to  the  station 
the  next  morning  to  meet  mums  and  Hebe,  with  the 
diamond  brooch  in  a  nice  little  box  she  found  for  it 
And  we  carried  out  the  plan  exactly.  Mother  was  as¬ 
tonished  when  she  saw  Judith,  and  very  pleased  even 
before  she  knew  what  had  happened.  And  she  thought 
us  all  looking  so  well.  No  wonder  we  were  all  so 
happy,  just  bursting  to  tell  her. 

And  I  can  l  tell  you  how  delighted  she  was,  and  how 


254 


THE  GIRLS  AND  I. 


wonderful  she  thought  it  She  sent  off  a  telegram  thai 
minute — we  went  to  the  post-office  on  purpose— to 
gran,  for  he  had  really  been  so  good  about  it.  It  really 
seemed  too  much  happiness  to  be  all  together  again, 
and  dear  old  Hebe  looking  so  well,  and  poor  little 
sweet  mums  so  bright  and  merry. 

The  rest  of  the  time  at  Fewforest  passed  very  jollily, 
though  we  had  no  particular  adventures.  We’ve  been 
there  two  or  three  times  since,  and  we  like  it  extra 
much  if  it  happens  to  be  Miss  Cross-at-first’s  turn  at  the 
getting-well  Home,  for  we’ve  grown  awfully  fond  o I 
her.  We  count  her  one  of  our  very  most  particular 
friends,  and  she  sings  so  beautifully. 

That’s  all  I  have  to  write  about  just  now.  It  seems 
to  finish  up  pretty  well.  I  daresay  I  shall  write  more 
some  day,  for  things  are  always  happening,  unless 
being  at  school  gets  me  out  of  the  way  of  it.  Perhaps 
even  if  it  does  I’ll  write  stories  like  father  when  I’m  a 
man.  If  ever  I  do,  and  if  people  like  them  (I’m  afraid 

they’d  never  be  anything  like  his),  it  would  be  rather 

/ 

funny  to  remember  that  I  was  only  eleven  when  1 
wrote  my  first  one — about  the  girls  and  me  I 


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EVERYBODY’S  SPEAKER  AND  ENTERTAINER 

Contains  select  readings,  dialogs  and  dramas.  Illustrated. 
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AMERICAN  STAR  SPEAKER  AND  ELOCUTIONIST 

Complete  text  on  how  to  recite.  225  selections,  550 
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